Gears of War: Mansion
by UnwaryDuck
Summary: Set two years prior to the events in the first game, Mansion is a love letter to the Multiplayer/Horde map following the fortunes of Alpha Squad as they embark on a covert operation to retrieve documents of strategic importance.
1. Chapter 1:  Long Is The Road

**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1542 hours.**

_Twelve years After Emergence._

"So on the all-time list of dumbfuck missions, collecting a dead Colonel's war diary has gotta be pretty far up there."

Corporal Damon Baird spat his disgust at this latest ill-advised command decision on the cracked and weed infested surface of the road he sauntered along.

The road wound further into the distance interminably, densely populated with the decaying metallic husks of abandoned vehicles glinting dully in the afternoon sun. Either side of the road, fields of overgrown unruly grass rippled in the slight breeze, long blades bleached yellow by the sun.

"Sure Baird. Right up there with not using your helmet."

"Thanks Shoenick. Your input's valued as always," Baird bristled. "Sue me if I enjoy my peripheral vision. Oh, and not for nothing asshole, but that tin can won't do jackshit against a torque bow bolt."

"Whatever. When we get back without you, I'll call your folks." Shoenick marched ahead and on the opposite side of the road to Baird, his face unreadable under the Mark IV COG issue helmet but the anger in his words was unmistakable. In a devastating war that had eradicated most of the human populace of the planet Sera, everyone had lost somebody. Family was invariably off-limits in even the most heated of exchanges.

Luckily, Baird was skilled in the art of pushing people's buttons.

"Do that," he sneered, shifting his grip on the Hammerburst assault rifle he was cradling. "They'll probably throw a party."

An over-sized hand slapped Baird's shoulder, almost bowling him over as Augustus 'Cole Train' Cole trotted his huge frame up from behind his friend.

"Damon, baby, you need to quit stewing over those wheels we left behind," guffawed the big man. As always, his imposing build belied his good nature.

Baird adjusted his trademark goggles and ran an agitated hand through his cropped blonde hair. "I'm not pissed about that," he sighed. "I just find it incredible that we're showing our asses to every Locust out here to find some guy's memoirs. 'Dear diary, today I sat on my fat ass while I ordered a bunch of Gears to get slaughtered.' Big fucking deal!"

"And people wonder why you keep getting busted down the ranks," grinned Cole. "It's the job, baby. They point and we go. Need to know and all that jazz."

Baird threw the big man a questioning glance. He had known that would be Cole's response; the private had point-blank refused every promotion the brass had tried to hang on him and they had tried on several occasions. But Cole wasn't interested in strategy or giving orders, he revelled in the team dynamic and was happy to be led.

"Hey, if their pointing means that some grub bastard has me in his crosshairs, I'm damn sure I need to know!"

"Cool off, hot shot," Cole soothed. "The Boss man'll fill us in on the game-plan soon enough."

Farther ahead up the road from the three Gears, an older man strode briskly ahead of them.

Shoulders squared, back straight, stride determined, his posture and gait contradicted the rag-tag appearance of his worn and mismatched armour. His head was completely shaved except for a salt-and-pepper goatee from which a thick cigar protruded from the thin line of his mouth. Three wicked looking close-set scars vertically bisected his left eye, partially obscured by an eye-patch that hid the worst of the damage to the socket itself.

Captain Andreas Rictor placed two fingers over his earpiece and transmitted back to base.

"Control, this is Alpha-Four."

"_Go ahead Alpha."_

"Mathieson, can you confirm that a Cargo Raven will be picking up Baird's sweetheart once we rendezvous at the primary LZ?"

"_Roger that, Alpha. I've got KR-thee-eight-seven lined up after a taxi job. Just call it in once you're back at the Armadillo. You guys run into problems?"_

"Not at all. Baird's just pining for something he actually gives a damn about."

Rictor stopped and took a long draw on the fat cigar as he considered Baird, the glow from the tip highlighting the contours of his coarse and weathered face.

"That about alleviate your concerns, Corporal?"

"Oh, sure. The world's my goddamn oyster."

"Quit your bitching." Rictor turned away, pulling absently at a necklace of jagged fangs that intertwined with his COG tags. "You got any updates on grub troop movement in the area, Mathieson?"

"_Sorry Captain, you're well out of patrol range now. Ravens haven't been running in your sector since we lost the Allfathers Bridge two weeks back. You guys are in the tall grass on this one."_

Rictor cursed softly. He'd forgotten the bridge fuel depot had been taken out by a recent Locust attack, effectively halving the COG's patrol range in the South-West of the area. Bastards were getting bolder every day.

"All right, Mathieson, we're gonna let Ernie off the leash" Rictor signalled to Baird to move up. "Let us know if he picks up anything."

"_Roger that, Alpha. Good hunting."_

Baird positioned himself in front of a small derelict family car, laying the Hammerburst on the rust discoloured bonnet and shrugged his bulky backpack from his shoulders. Gingerly placing the 'pack' on the bonnet next to his rifle with a soft but audible _clank _he began unclipping the shoulder-straps from fittings mounted on a rounded cobalt-coloured metal carapace roughly the size of a man's torso. On the right hand side of the carapace a series of lights pulsed at random intervals.

Baird ran a gloved hand over the metal body, smoothing dust off of it and unhooked a hand-held control pad from his belt.

Cole watched over his friend's shoulder, shaking his head and smiling. "Does Ernie know you've been cheating on him with the 'Dill?"

Baird didn't even look up from the control pad as he typed in commands. "Fuck you."

Cole's snigger turned into a snort as he turned around, scanning down the road behind Alpha for potential threats.

Servos whined and hydraulics hissed within the carapace as sections of it retracted into the housing, allowing two slender mechanical arms, an anti-grav engine and a small rectangular head to cycle into place. Ernie's electric blue optic sensors stuttered into life, giving him the appearance of a waking sleeper blinking after restful slumber.

Baird finished typing in instructions and picked up his rifle. "Patrol duty little buddy. Go find us some bad guys."

With a cheerful beep and electronic whistle, the little robot rose steadily into the air and sped off over the rusted vehicle roofs ahead.

Rictor watched the robot disappear into the distance as he resumed his march, remembering a time when technology like that was commonplace. Not now. Not after nearly a century of war.

"All right, Alpha, let's move. Quit bunching up – we're shaping up to be a nice juicy target." He jammed his fingers to the com-link again. "Ramirez, hold your position. Ernie's on point for a bit."

"_Roger that," _a husky female voice answered._ "I found an old mansion a few klicks up ahead of you. Could be the place we're looking for."_

"Good work. What's it look like?"

"_Way above our pay-grade. Even with the shit bombed out of it."_

"Cute. Hold there and we'll see what Ernie can see."

The squad fell in either side of the road, maintaining a distance of eight to ten feet between each person; Rictor up front, Shoenick and Baird in the middle and Cole covering the rear.

Cole stared curiously at the wrecks they passed, Lancer balanced easily on a massive shoulder, the rifles metal casing periodically connecting with the stock of the Boom Shot strapped to his back. "Hey, I just noticed. All the cars are going the same way – even on the _wrong _side of the road: _towards_ the highway."

"Yeah, and there's no bodies in any of the cars," piped up Shoenick, peering through the dusty windshields and windows of the vehicles.

"Last great gridlock," Rictor called out over his shoulder through a plume of cigar smoke. "When Prescott announced the Hammer strikes, everyone had three days to get to Ephyra before zero hour. When you're that desperate to get to minimum safe distance, even running miles on foot sounds better than rotting in a car."

"Couldn't have been easy," said Shoenick looking at the others. "Making the decision to fire the Hammer of Dawn satellites on your own people, I mean."

Cole walked backwards with surefooted ease, checking between the cars behind them. "Yeah, our Chairman's got a big set of balls on him. And he don't back down from a fight."

Baird rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"There's another great command decision right there! This guy deep-fries Sera and most of the populace, an act that doesn't _actually_ destroy the Locust it just pisses them off instead! But, hold on! Not satisfied with driving the rest of us towards extinction, he leaves us with a bunch of Stranded assholes who are just as likely to attack us as the fucking grubs! Remind me not to vote for that guy again."

Baird stopped to make sure he had everyone's attention/bewilderment/disgust before slapping the goggles on his forehead with all the subtlety of a Saturday morning matinee cartoon character. "Oh, hey I forgot! We don't vote!"

Rictor glowered at Baird through a cloud of blue-grey cigar smoke. "Asset denial is the last resort of the desperate, he growled. "And we _were_ desperate. Command was measuring our survival rate in _months_. You sure you'd have the balls to make that kind of call, _Corporal?_"

The mechanic spat on the fatigued asphalt again and resumed his march, Cole's throaty chuckle following him up the road.

* * *

><p>Staff Sergeant Josefina Ramirez looked at the ruined mansion through the telescopic sight of her Longshot from her position in a small wood opposite the structure.<p>

Like many seasoned Gears, she waived the protection of a helmet in favour of increased visual scanning. Her vision was limited at best looking through a scope let alone wearing a helmet and sighting down a sniper rifle.

Unlike the rest of Alpha squad however, Ramirez favoured a lighter armour build, keeping only the bare essentials such as the chest plates and grieves which afforded her increased speed and manoeuvrability for recon and getting into hard-to-reach sniping positions.

The wood was perched on a small hill that allowed Ramirez to lie prone but still afforded her a good view of the once stately two-storey home over the crumbling walls.

She swept the barrel of the urban camouflage painted rifle slowly across the face of the mansion; lingering on the shattered windows, noting the rusting padlocked main gates of the property, the bleached and peeling front door almost obscured by a weatherworn statue of some forgotten COG hero ankle deep in a stagnant pond choked with weeds and algae. Ramirez stifled a rueful smile as she moved her scope upwards to the roof, scanning over gaping holes in the dilapidated shingles.

As the leaves of the Crimson Oak trees shimmered in the breeze, the vibrant rays of the late afternoon sun painted the damage and decrepitude of the mansion with a rustic air that looked almost idyllic_. More idyllic than a barracks cot at any rate_, Ramirez mused.

She lowered the rifle, pushing herself up into a crouch and reached for the Gorgon pistol in her thigh holster as she heard movement from her left-hand side.

"Hold your fire Ma'am, we're the good guys," grinned Cole from behind the rest of Alpha as they stalked up the road towards Ramirez.

"You boys have been taking your sweet time," Ramirez chided, holstering the Gorgon and rotating her shoulder to work some stiffness out. "Doing a little sightseeing?"

The big man nodded towards Baird. "Someone had a blow-out. We stopped to lend a hand."

"Really?" Ramirez arched an eyebrow as she watched Baird sullenly find a spot among the sprawling roots of one of the oaks and sit down. "Can't keep a good boy scout down, right Cole?"

Cole leaned his Lancer against the trunk of a tree, stretching his massive arms and rolling his neck from side to side.

"No, ma'am. What you been up to?"

Ramirez loosened the camo pattern keffiyeh scarf around her neck and offered Cole a drink of water from her canteen.

"I'm in the market for a house, thought I'd stop by and check this dump out."

Rictor had stooped down in front of a particularly battered van on the road and unslung his older Pendulum Wars era Lancer, ejecting the magazine and beckoning Ramirez to him.

"Aw, I bet it just needs that woman's touch," Cole drawled, taking a slug and throwing the canteen back to her.

The sniper walked towards her CO, passing Shoenick and patting him affectionately on the shoulder. "Still sticking with that helmet, rook?"

"You bet your ass," Shoenick tapped the temple of his helmet with a gloved finger as he walked deeper into the copse – _smart thinking_.

"More often than not."

Ramirez hunkered down next to Rictor, holding her rifle by the lengthy barrel and planting the stock on the ground to steady herself. "Oughta be in a museum."

Rictor was busy examining the auto-feed mechanism in the magazine, looking for potential jams. "She's a tough old girl. Got me out of plenty of tight spots."

"I wasn't talking about the Lancer."

"Uh-huh," Rictor slammed the mag back into the rifle and chambered a round, a half-smile forming around the well-chewed cigar. "Watcha got for me?"

"Well," Ramirez inclined her head towards the mansion. "Obviously, the property's got a pretty big wall built around it. The front gates are chained shut but the wall's breached in a few places so getting in isn't a problem. The mansion itself is a hole. Literally. I did a quick three-sixty and the North-West corner of the building is gone – the support walls and most of the roof have either collapsed or been destroyed."

Rictor listened intently while he pulled at the necklace of discoloured fangs. Colourful mess-hall rumour had it that they were the teeth of the Locust who'd taken his eye. Rictor was always evasive when pressed though.

"Other than that, there's no power and, far as I can tell, it looks like nobody's been home in a long time."

Rictor puffed on his cigar as he propped the old-fashioned Lancer against the van behind him and unfolded a dog-eared map from his webbing, tapping a circled area with a calloused fingertip.

Ramirez dropped her voice to a whisper. "What are we doing out here, Andy?"

Rictor stared quietly at his second in command, not for the first time acutely aware of the marked age gap between the Sergeant and himself – almost two decades. "Recovering documents of strategic importance,'" he said as he returned his gaze to the map.

"Bullshit. This is what Baird was getting pissy about wasn't it?" Ramirez stared back at Rictor through a fringe of dark choppy cropped hair. "I gotta tell you, I agree with him and you know how that makes me crazy."

"And here I thought we were supposed to close ranks and show a little solidarity." Rictor's eyebrows slid into a savage frown causing the scar tissue on his forehead and cheek to tighten and twitch slightly as he stared down the younger soldier.

Ramirez met his gaze steadily, uncomfortable under the unblinking stare of that slate grey eye but unwilling to back down. "Funny thing: I thought I was here to keep you honest."

Rictor gave a derisive snort as he placed his finger over his earpiece. "Control, you got any intel for me?"

_"Good news and bad news, Captain."_

"Story of my life. Gimme the good stuff first."

_"Ernie's swept your mansion and it looks clear: no hostile, civilian or COG presence in or around the building."_

"Affirmative. Our recon confirms that. Make my day and give me the bad news."

_"Ernie's scans picked up some tracks in the grass leading North, away from the mansion."_ Mathieson paused, for all the world sounding like he was building up tension. _"About a klick away there are three emergence-holes spread out over a wide area. I'd estimate one to two klicks."_

Rictor took the cigar from his mouth and stood up, looking in the direction of the mansion for threats. "Are those e-holes recent?"

_"Unknown. With the weather conditions being as clement as they have been it's hard to tell. Could've been made a few hours or a few weeks ago."_

Rictor let out a short sigh.

"_There's one other thing, Captain."_

Rictor remained silent, his growing frustration filling the void more adequately than any words.

"_Ernie's thermal scans have revealed what looks like a basement in the structure. It's hard to be conclusive because of the granite in the plateau."_ Mathieson was apprehensive, hedging around something bigger.

"Go on." The veteran's tone was clipped, stoically prepared for the worst.

"_There are some minute thermal fluctuations in that basement area. Nothing big enough to be a grub but-"_

"But it could be wretches or tickers." Rictor growled.

_"In a nutshell. Sorry, Captain,"_ Mathieson said apologetically.

Rictor dropped the cigar in the grass and ground it out underfoot. "So when you said 'good news and bad news' you actually meant 'bad news and worse news', right?

"_The anomalies appear stationary but I can't confirm what they are at this time. Thought you needed the heads up."_

"You thought right. Stay on the line, Mathieson, and bring Ernie back. We're gonna need your help."

_"Roger that."_

Rictor grabbed his Lancer and beckoned to the rest of Alpha. "All right, kids. Front and centre: squad pep talk."

Baird, Cole and Shoenick all grabbed their Gear and pulled up in front of Rictor. Ramirez stood, balancing the Longshot across her shoulders.

"According to Command," Rictor thumbed over his shoulder at the mansion "the humble abode behind me is the home of Colonel James Francis Avery, MIA for twelve years presumed dead. Story goes that he wasn't your regular garden variety brass but was in charge of the DRA before Adam Fenix got his hands on it."

"The Defence Research Agency?" Baird whined, rolling his eyes. "Oh, this reeks of black bag!"

"Don't know it for sure, but it's definitely got the stink of government all over it," Rictor agreed.

Shoenick half-raised his arm to ask a question like a pupil in a classroom. "Uh, what's 'black bag'?"

Ramirez' eyes were focused on her feet as she kicked the grass agitatedly. "It's when the COG does its dirty laundry behind closed doors. Out of the public eye."

"Off the books, deniable operations," Rictor nodded grimly.

"So what are we looking for, Top?" Cole said, folding his arms all business.

"Command believes that somewhere in that over-sized holiday home is a safe or a lockbox containing information on something called Project Myrmidon. We're here to secure and retrieve that information." Rictor looked around the squad, aware of their expectant stares - waiting for that one extra piece of information that would make the whole op make sense. "Now you know what I know."

Baird slung his Hammerburst and stepped forward, eyes narrowed, an accusatory finger levelled at Rictor. "And what exactly is Project Myrmidon?"

"That information is classified above my security clearance," Rictor smiled humourlessly as Baird shook his head in disgust. "Truth be told I don't even think Hoffman knows."

"You think Prescott's keeping Hoffman out of the loop?" Ramirez frowned.

"Unknown. We're here now, though, so let's get it done. We'll split into two teams and sweep the place one floor a piece. We don't have any blueprints so take it slow and by the numbers. Anything gets funky, call it in. I don't want anyone wandering off." Rictor turned his attention and a stern finger to Coltrane. "Cole, I don't want any heroics out of you."

Cole held his arms open and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't hate the player, baby."

"I don't wanna hear it. This thing goes South, there's no back up." Rictor looked around the rest of the squad to emphasize his point. "All right, Cole and I will take the top floor, Baird, you and Shoenick take the ground floor."

"Why do I get saddled with the rookie?" Baird threw his hands up.

Rictor had removed his bayonet from a sheath in his webbing while he was briefing Alpha and was busy attaching it to the muzzle of his Lancer. "Call it asshole tax for your little shit-fit on the road back there." The veteran Gear turned to the newest member of Alpha squad. "Shoenick, watch his back, remember your training and you _will_ be fine."

Shoenick didn't sound so sure. "Thanks Captain. I think."

"Ramirez I want you set up outside. Find a good sniper position and spot for us – keep an eye out for any grubs. If things get FUBAR you're our fire support. Mathieson? Give her a hand with Ernie."

_"Will do."_

Ramirez slipped the shoulder strap of her Longshot over her head and adjusted its position on her back.

"And if you need fire support inside the house?"

Rictor finished screwing the bayonet in place and shifted his grip to a firing position. "We'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

Ramirez gave a quick half salute as she jogged over to the nearby trees, looking for one tall enough to give her the best vantage point.

Rictor addressed the remaining members of Alpha squad.

"All right people, single file across the road, over the wall and converge on the front door. Cole, you're on point."


	2. Chapter 2: Locust War Real Estate Values

**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1627 hours.**

The mansion's gardens had seen better days.

The short driveway leading from the rusted entrance gates, once a straight path composed of loose brick-red stone chips, was now a uniform strip of knee-high grass liberally populated with loose stones.

Two quadrants of lawn that tapered into crescents cupping the entrance to the mansion in a neat inverted semi-circle had grown even taller than that of the drive, the once trim lawns either side of the driveway now bowing sedately in the warm breeze. Flower beds at the foot of the twin stone stair cases that flanked a raised entrance dais had grown unkempt and unruly, exotic blooms vying for the sun's rays with common weeds.

It seemed that all of Sera was at war with itself.

The 'battle' in the garden had spilled over onto the remnants of the great house: ivy and creepers criss-crossed the walls and roof as if someone had draped a living cargo net over the mansion. The flora had been entrenched on the walls of the mansion for so long that that bricks surrounding the vines had become tinged with a sickly green colour, as if the garden itself had infected the building.

The men of Alpha Squad were positioned either side of the front door, performing last-minute equipment checks and waiting for Ramirez and Mathieson to give the 'all-ready'.

Cole was fussing over the squad new recruit like a mother hen, checking armour, tightening straps, putting extra ammo clips within more efficient reach on his webbing.

Shoenick for his part, was basically being manhandled by the bigger man. He couldn't fail to notice how Cole's massive frame blotted out the light as he towered over him, silhouetting the thrashball star and making it impossible to tell where his armour ended and his dark skin began.

While the rookie reputation annoyed him, Schoenick could think of worse things than having a final equipment check by the star player of the Hanover Cougars.

Baird was doing some checking of his own; over the duct-tape sticking two opposite-facing Hammerburst magazines together for quick reloading. He still took time out to flash his trademark sneer at Cole's preening. "Remember to check he's washed behind his ears and that he's got his name sewn into the back of his jockeys. We don't want to lose him."

"You wait your turn, Damon," Cole grinned. "I'll get to you in a second."

The big man finished checking over the magazine in Shoenick's Lancer and disengaged the safety catch on the chainsaw bayonet before handing it back to him.

"Uh-huh. Locked and loaded.

He gave the rookie a thumbs-up and an enthusiastic slap on the shoulder that propelled him a foot along the wall of the mansion.

"Thanks, Cole," the rookie recovered and returned the thumbs-up.

Shoenick looked to his left at Rictor who was crouched down against the wall, surreptitiously peering into a ground-floor window that was clouded by decades worth of dirt next to the front door. Using a hand to clear a clean patch in the grime, Rictor quickly looked over the shadowy interior for any movement before moving onto the next window.

"Uh, why are we going in the front door if the back's all bombed out like Ramirez said?" Shoenick asked.

Baird tapped one of a pair of weathered fluted columns set either side of the doorway with the barrel of his Hammerburst. "Other than the fact that it affords us the opportunity to enjoy this magnificent example of Era Of Silence architecture, the front door leads into a narrow hallway creating a bottleneck that will give our limited numbers an advantage over potentially superior enemy forces. Do the math, genius."

"You ever get tired of running your mouth off, Baird?" Rictor had finished checking the last window and was on his haunches leaning with his back against the front of the great house.

"Uh, no. Actually," Baird sounded unusually forthright, as if even he was surprised by his honesty.

"Figures," muttered Rictor irritably while placing two fingers on his com-link earpiece. "Ramirez, give me a sit-rep."

"_In position. I've got line of sight on the South and West sides of the mansion."_

"Copy that. Mathieson, we need Ernie for a little breaking and entering."

"_Roger, Alpha. Be there in a few seconds."_

Rictor slung his rifle and pulled a Gnasher shotgun from a holster strapped to his back, taking up the point position directly in front of the door. With practised ease, Baird and Cole stacked either side of it, left and right respectively, weapons ready but angled down towards the floor. Shoenick crouched to the left of Baird.

Rictor pulled back a few paces as Ernie descended, the hum and crackle of his anti-grav engines deafening in the silent countryside, accenting the all ready tense atmosphere.

The little bot glided towards the door, extending one of his slender arms as the cutting torch attached to it ignited. The thick smell of burning wood filled the air as the bot began cutting a circular hole around the lock.

Baird gingerly grabbed the door handle as Ernie finished liberating it from the door and threw it into the long grass in the garden. With a beep and whistle, Ernie rotated through one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and rose into the air.

"_Okay, Alpha. I'm going to station Ernie at the North-East corner of the mansion to cover Ramirez' blind spot."_

Baird removed a hand from the grip of his rifle and activated his com-link. "Hey Mathieson, any more intel on those heat fluctuations in the basement?"

"_Nothing conclusive, Baird. They do seem to be holding position though."_

Baird's shoulders sank. "Great. So whatever they are, they know we're here."

Rictor advanced on the door.

"Suck it up, hero."

The veteran Gear cautiously pushed the door open with the stout barrel of the Gnasher, briefly surprised that the hinges didn't audibly protest after years of inactivity and negligence. He took a slow deliberate step over the threshold into the gloomy interior, swept the shotgun left to right checking for hostiles.

The door opened onto a corridor twelve to fifteen feet long that fed into a grand hall dominated by twin staircases leading to the upstairs level, each flight of steps guarded at its base by an identical stone statue whose identity would forever remain a mystery thanks to the violent removal of their heads.

Shafts of sunlight cascaded through the roof in several places in the corridor and hall where the roof had been weakened and damaged over a decade of negligence, providing a surprising amount of ambient light. Dust motes spiralled lazily in and out of the golden columns, catching the sunlight and giving the interior of the mansion the look of a recently shaken snow globe diorama as the glitter settles.

Two doors led off on either side of the corridor before it opened out into the hall. Rictor moved forward, signalling to Baird and Cole – who, in well-rehearsed fashion, were following at his heels, weapons raised – to check the rooms behind the doors.

Shoenick pulled up the rear, taking one last longing look at the overgrown front garden before following suit inside.

As he entered the mansion, the rookie realised that no sounds of wildlife filled the countryside; no birds, no insects. It was as if nature herself was holding her breath.

* * *

><p>Ramirez smoothed a few of the Crimson Oak's reddish leaves out of her field of view, watching tensely as the rest of Alpha entered into the mansion. She was lay along the length of a gnarled but relatively straight, thick branch that jutted over the disused road towards the mansion.<p>

Her Longshot's barrel supported by the 'v' of a younger branch, the Sergeant looked through the telescopic sight as she tracked Cole's progress in the right-hand front room. She lingered for a few seconds, resisting the urge to switch to night vision to improve the darker image of her squad member and switched to Baird in the adjacent room.

"_You watch your ass, geek_," Cole's deep rumbling tones sounded tinny and small over the comms.

"_Likewise, jock,_" Baird retorted, his usual sarcasm dialled down to an almost friendly, jocular tone.

_Baird might want everyone else to think he doesn't give a shit about anybody _Ramirez mused, _but there's no denying who he'd rather be searching this dump with._

"_Any chance you ladies might give me a little op-sec?"_ Rictor spat acidly.

The sniper smiled in spite of herself. _He's not the only one who isn't fooling anybody either._

Rictor had been at war for a lifetime, honed into combat readiness by the fires of the Pendulum Wars, almost in preparation for the catastrophic Locust emergence over a decade ago. Losing colleagues and comrades didn't get any easier regardless of the awful regularity of battle and she knew he felt every loss keenly. In the veteran Gear's case, his gruff, tough-as-nails persona had manifested itself to disguise (and in some ways protect him from) every commanding officer's concern for his charges' well-being.

Ramirez was distracted by sunlight glinting off of imperfections on Ernie's battered metallic skin as he wheeled into position. The little bot had seen his fair share of combat too and Baird had a full-time job scavenging parts to maintain him.

Alpha's second-in-command switched comms channels: "How's it looking, Mathieson?"

"_Hang on, Ernie's not as manoeuvrable after that boom shot hit a few weeks back."_ Ramirez heard a keyboard being battered relentlessly in the background. _"There he is. Activating thermal scan now."_

"Did I hear that right? Has the blonde genius failed to fix something for a change?"

"_Not at all,"_ Mathieson's tone was placatory. "_He's pulling to the left a little but the odds of Baird snagging a new thruster actuator these days are absolutely zero. Considering his current one was fragged pretty bad, it's a miracle he's airborne at all."_

Ramirez looked up from the scope as the subject of their discussion exited the left-hand front room with Schoenick in tow. "Tell Baird anyway, he'll enjoy trying to fix it just so he can gloat. I hear Delta have a bot with a working cloak."

"_Baird's been bending my ear about it for months but Colonel Hoffman insists that Jack stays with Delta Two." _Staccato keyboard strokes sounded in the background again._ "There we are, just the four heat signatures so far. Not counting those ones in the basement."_

"Keep me posted."

Ramirez switched channels back to the squad comms just as Rictor chimed in; _"forward rooms are clear. Fire Team One is proceeding to the first floor while Team Two continues to sweep the ground floor. Stay sharp, people."_

* * *

><p>Rictor and Cole crept up the right-hand stairwell of the grand staircase as silently as they were able, dogged by creaking floorboards despite trying to distribute their weight slowly and evenly.<p>

As they neared the top of the stairs, Rictor paused at eye level with the floor, cautiously checking for hostiles on the large, railed semi-circular landing and the similarly railed walkways above the main hall that led to the front upper rooms on the left and right it.

Situated centrally on the landing, two cracked and mouldy leather sofas faced each other at right angles to the entrance of the building, the contents of their stuffing mushrooming out in several places like a man-made fungus. Rictor turned and signalled to Cole to flank from the near side of the sofas while he circled to the far side.

Satisfied the seating area was clear, the pair split up and began checking each of the hallways leading further into the rear of the mansion.

Rictor took the right corridor, returning the Gnasher to the holster on his back as he retrieved a small handheld flashlight with his free hand to combat the deepening gloom of the corridor. Despite the numerous windows at the front of the first floor of the main hall, the fading sun was losing its potency.

"That Armadillo SNAFU cost us time, people: not a lot of daylight left. Let's finish our sweep and bang out before nightfall," the veteran Gear broadcast. Pulling a Boltok pistol from a thigh holster, Rictor advanced into the dimly lit hall.

Cole had an easier job of it on the left side; the hallway was now only half of its original length, the rest of it (and that of the room that had branched off of it to the left) now littered the floor of the generously proportioned kitchen, a store room and what looked like servants quarters below.

The big man looked up at the void where the North-West section of the roof had been, taking in the golds and oranges of the deepening dusk in the sky. Something had scooped a large roughly circular section out of this upper quadrant of the great house, leaving only shattered brickwork, ruined timbers and ripped plasterboard in its wake.

"Hey, Baird," Cole smiled, pressing his earpiece. "Can you check some of my rooms? Most of 'em look like they're on your floor now."

"_Laugh it up, chuckles,"_ Baird retorted.

"_What've you got, Cole?"_ Rictor interrupted.

"A big, damn hole just like Ramirez said," Cole said plainly.

"_Explosion?"_

"Probably. Can't see any carbon scoring but if it happened a while back the weather could've washed it away." Cole picked at the damaged wallpaper, looking for any tell-tale signs of ordinance.

"_Careful, Cole. That side of the house will be a damn sight weaker now."_

"Copy that."

On Cole's right, a doorway had been violently expanded by the destruction to create an open plan hallway/master bedroom combination. Through the gaping hole, the former-thrashball star could see that the room had indeed been exposed to the elements. Mixed in with the dirt and rubble from whatever had damaged the mansion were strewn leaves, dirt and familiar refuse on top of the large bed, accompanying bedside cabinets, dressing table and double wardrobe that made up the room.

As he swept his gaze across the panorama of the mansions rear gardens, the fields beyond them and the distant forest in the background where the bedroom's rear wall should have been, the hair on the back of Cole's neck prickled as he subconsciously felt someone watching him on the periphery of his vision. Snapping to his right, Lancer raised, the big man let out a snort of relief as he realised he was being coolly regarded by a pair of marble busts lurking in small alcoves in the walls of the bedroom. Each one raised on stone pillars, the once pristine white marble was now stained the colour of old bones.

"Top, what's left of this side looks clear. You want I should start checking the bedroom?" Cole asked.

"_Negative. This corridor's clean. Let's pair up and start searching the rooms on my side. We'll do the bedroom once we've finished those."_

"On my way."

* * *

><p>Baird looked upwards at the distressed ceiling as the wooden structure rolled and groaned from the movement of Fire Team One on the first floor. Brushing plaster and dust out of his hair, he briefly envisioned Cole plummeting from above, his gargantuan frame defeating the weakened floorboards.<p>

Looking down, he returned to his so far fruitless search for the mysterious 'Project Myrmidon' files.

He and Schoenick were searching a small room just off of the main hall that looked to have been a guest room judging by the furniture; an overturned wooden single bed and a wooden bedside cabinet that had been pitched onto its side, spilling its contents across the floor.

"Looks like the maid's on holiday," Baird quipped.

"Yeah, not unlike your sense of humour," Shoenick deadpanned, the quiver in his voice betraying the fear that had gripped him since Alpha had breached the mansion.

Baird snorted, unconsciously noticing that Shoenick had more spine than he'd previously given him credit for before checking himself.

He knelt down (uncomfortably aware that carpets shouldn't have a crunchy top layer that gives way to fetid dampness) and began sifting through some of the items from the cabinet while Shoenick waited at the threshold of the room, covering their rear.

Baird's half-hearted search was interrupted by the twitchy movements of the rookie Gear behind him. The slightest sounds and tiniest movements in the adjacent room demanded Shoenick's immediate attention, his whole body snapping in the direction of each perceived threat.

"Kinda jumpy there, rook, aren't you?" Baird wise-cracked.

"Fuck you," Shoenick pouted, twisting his head in Baird's direction before another phantom intruder claimed his attention.

Baird picked up a decomposing copy of the Octus Canon (_what kind of sadistic host puts that in the bedside cabinet of their guest room?!), _recoiling at the musty odour as he leafed through the pages.

"Quick lesson in physics, Schoenick; when you move your whole body around every time you shift your aim, your weight moves the floorboards creating more noise and movement, which in turn freaks you out even more. It's one of those perpetual cycle things." He tossed the book as he looked up at Shoenick, the oval lenses and circular breathing filter of the other's helmet giving the rookie a wide-eyed _aw, shucks_ expression.

Baird walked to the other Gear, planting a gloved hand on each baby-blue shoulder pauldron and twisting Shoenick around so he was facing back into the main hall. He moved his hands to the rookie's helmet directing it from one side to the other in quick succession. "Scan with your head first. If you spot a target _then_ bring your Lancer up to where you're looking."

Shoenick did as he was told, momentarily buoyed by the lack of sound and movement. "Uh, thanks," he said awkwardly.

"Sure," Baird patted him on the back condescendingly. "Just try not to shoot me, okay?"

"Dick," Shoenick shot back.

"Such beautiful pillow talk," Baird murmured as he wandered back over to the bed, kicking at the moth-eaten mildew infested sheets and watching with interest as clouds of dust and spores puffed up into the air. "Nobody's been in _this _bed for a while…"

Baird turned hefting his rifle and pressing the com-link in his ear, "Fire Team Two to One. Guest room looks clear, we're moving on."

"_Roger that, Two,"_ Rictor returned. _"Just finishing our sweep of the intact rooms at the rear: nothing so far."_

Baird ushered Shoenick back into the main hall, gesturing at the faded opulence of their surroundings. The rotting wooden panelling on the walls, support columns and the stairway railings were an eyesore now but, here and there, hints of their lustrous glory days lived on. "Not short of a buck or two our Colonel was he? Reminds me of home."

Shoenick ran a finger along the top of a waist-high vase as he headed towards a closed door situated in a recess to the left of the main staircase, the dust disturbed by him sparkling in a stray beam of sunlight. "Your folks were loaded? I might have guessed."

Baird stopped in his tracks on his way to another door near the foot of the stairs on the opposite side of the room. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It sure would explain the way you look down on everybody." The rookie pushed the door open with the muzzle of his Lancer, sighting down the exposed hallway for lurking threats.

"No," Baird said emphatically. "I look down on everybody because I'm smarter than them. My personal wealth has nothing to do with that. Not that it matters any more." He flanked the door on one side, grabbing his rifle with both hands and using his heel to push it open.

Swinging into the new room as if on a hinge himself, Baird began investigating its contents.

* * *

><p>Upstairs, Cole and Rictor were emerging from a spacious bathroom they had explored with no success.<p>

Rictor gestured to the second door further up the same side as them, briefly peering down to check on Shoenick and Baird in the main hall. As with the previous rooms, Cole stacked to one side of the door while Rictor entered cautiously into what appeared to be a library.

"_Baird here,_" the pair's com-links crackled. "_Got some tracks here. Looks like wretches._"

"Fresh?"

"No. Whosever blood the little shits stepped in is pretty dry now," Baird said pointedly.

Rictor sighed.

"Mathieson, you picking anything up?"

There was sounds of typing over the channel.

"Nothing on satellite. Ernie concurs," he reported. "Except for t-"

"The basement. Right," Rictor bridled continuing into the room.

One wall of the twenty foot long room was lined with tall narrow windows, allowing the late afternoon sun to paint the remaining book-filled walls a deep vibrant orange. Dark-stained wooden floor to ceiling bookcases were all filled to capacity with literature of all shapes and sizes; mouldering leather-bound hardbacks, yellowed curling paperbacks, stacks of decaying newspaper and magazines, even dusty boxes of data storage diskettes cluttered the shelves.

In the centre of the room a long wooden table played host to several stacks of smaller books, which, in turn, served to flatten out sheafs of maps which were similarly discoloured and curling like their shelved paper counterparts. At the far end of the table, a computer sat atop a once ornate wooden desk.

Rictor moved towards the desk. "Jackpot. Let's see what's on that computer."

Behind and to the right of him, Cole nodded silently.

"You're real quiet all of a sudden, Cole. What's on your mind?"

The big man walked towards the windows, checking the mansion grounds for signs of activity. "Just trying to figure out what we're looking for. I'm starting to get a bad feeling, baby."

"What happened to the happy-go-lucky Cole I came in here with?" Rictor rounded the end of the table and began searching for a power button on the computer base unit.

Cole ignored the question and turned away from the windows, his customary good cheer replaced by a deepening frown. "What do you think this Project Myrmidon is?"

"Could be a weapon," Rictor grunted as he found the power button and half-heartedly depressed it, not really expecting the machine to activate. "It could be a defensive measure. Hell, it could even be the secret ingredient for Jacinto Fried Chicken." The computer continued to impersonate a large paper weight.

Rictor kicked a fatigued leather office chair away from the desk, wincing at the squealing protest of its wheels and checked the computer was plugged into a power socket before continuing. "Like you said earlier, they point and we go. But I figure that if whatever top secret bullshit hidden here helps kicks those ugly sons of bitches back down their holes and saves some lives, it's worth the risk."

"I hear that," Cole agreed.

Rictor slipped a combat knife from a sheath in one of his boots with one hand and pressed the other to his com-link. "This is Fire Team One to Two; we've got a computer up here in the library with no power. We're removing the hard drive and moving on." He removed the monitor from the base unit and began to unscrew the housing with the tip of the knife.

"_No power?"_ Baird sounded uncharacteristically sincere. _"Are you sure?"_

"Baird, I swear if you ask me if it's plugged in-"

"_Schoenick just found a fridge with a working light,"_ the other interrupted.

* * *

><p>Baird's ire was reaching critical mass.<p>

He'd been so intent on finding those lousy files that he'd written off the kitchen without even looking in it. _Who keeps their top secret shit in the cookie jar, right?_ The Corporal had been in the servants quarters sifting through the rubble from the damaged upper floor.

It was Schoenick that had noticed the vibration: subtle trembling in the soles of his boots.

_I am never going to hear the end of this_, Baird thought hanging his head.

Still jumpy, the rookie had asked if it was an e-hole erupting nearby. Baird had all but scoffed at that. The tremors from Locust emergence holes weren't constant – they could last for a while but eventually they had to stop. Once the monsters spilled out, of course.

Too slow, the squad technical expert's curiosity was peaked. He had moved towards the impressively large kitchen that ran almost the entire width of the back of the mansion as Schoenick traced the vibrations to the refrigerator – one of those massive old-fashioned white and chrome behemoths, as if the designers of yesteryear's cars had been given the task of reshaping home appliances – and opened the door.

Inside, the refrigerator looked like something out of one of those old science-fiction movies Baird had loved watching late night re-runs of on television as a kid. There were familiar forms on the shelves inside – milk and egg cartons, tupperware, jars and spreads - but their exact contents were a mystery due to the explosion of mould and fungus that had cocooned virtually all of the fridge's contents.

Baird recoiled in disgust, his feet scattering debris on the floor as he back-pedalled. "Oh, that's rank!"

"My helmets air filters soak up most of the smell. It's not too bad," Schoenick opined, one hand still on the fridge door handle.

It was impossible to tell under that helmet, but Baird was sure the little green bastard was grinning.

And it was at that point that Rictor had dropped the bombshell about the power.

It wasn't infeasible that an abandoned mansion had power after over a decade of war, it was adjacent to a friendly occupied major city that still had some semblance of power and immulsion facilities, but it was _highly_ unlikely. Actually, the odds were verging on the impossible, but Baird had had experience of stranger things. Black-eyed, white-skinned demons bubbling up out of the ground, for example.

Not as unlikely as the same derelict mansion only having power in one incredibly specific location, though.

Baird marched to the rear wall, now missing a wide curving semi-circular section mirroring the damage to the first floor, and peered over the damaged brickwork and shattered windows into the rear garden. He sidestepped along the length of the wall-mounted counter, passing a grubby sink full of festering dishes, regularly peering over the broken wall into the garden before stopping, deep in thought.

Absently, he ruffled the tuft of blonde hair on his lower lip before his head snapped up and he marched to the doorway opposite the fridge and Schoenick.

"Baird, what's wrong?" Schoenick enquired, the tell-tale quiver of uncertainty lurking in the back of his throat again.

Baird ignored him, reached the doorway and flipped the light switch several times. Nothing.

"Baird?"

Baird turned slowly back to the Private, lost in thought, sounding out a theory. "We're in an ancient house that's been unoccupied for a decade or longer close as we can figure it, but the fridge still has power somehow and nothing else. There has to be a generator somewhere."

"Okay," Schoenick said, closing the refrigerator door. "Where?"

As the Private shut the door over, Baird saw it; the section of the floor in front of the fridge had been swept clear of the larger chunks of detritus by the low-slung door and the inexplicably powered light from within the fridge caught the edge of a large arcing score in the tiles of the floor.

"Leave it open!" Baird slipped and slid his way across the rubble-strewn floor to the offending appliance.

"What?!" Schoenick caught the door by reflex.

Baird crouched in front of the fridge, bathed in jaundiced light as he ran a gloved finger along the groove in the floor. Removing a flashlight from one of his fatigue pockets, he crabbed to the left of the fridge and began examining the back of it.

Schoenick leaned around the corner of the fridge to watch Baird. "I thought you said we had to find a generator?"

"That's what I _am_ doing," Baird said irritably.

"What? Are you trying to follow the power cable? Won't that just go in to a socket?"

Baird scowled up at the other Gear, one hand still behind the appliance.

"No shit."

With a soft click and a sinister hiss of pneumatics, the refrigerator in its entirety began to swing on its axis away from the wall, shutting the door that Schoenick was still holding. Finishing up at a ninety degree angle to the wall, the refrigerator revealed a dark metal panel about a metre and a half square fitted flush to the rest of the kitchen floor with a glowing keypad and what looked like a camera lens adjacent to it.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" Shoenick bleated incredulously.

Baird cleared dust and dirt off of the panel and leaned down closer to it, running an appraising eye over it. "What? You never watched any spy movies?"

Unknown to the other, the wide-eyed confused look on Schoenick's helmet mimicked his own.

"This is Fire Team Two," Baird broadcast to the rest of the squad. "I think we've hit paydirt."

"_Go ahead, Two."_

"There's a trap door hidden in the kitchen floor. True to our luck though, it's a one-inch thick armour-plated trap door and wired up with what looks like key code and retinal identification."

Rictor was silent.

"I don't suppose that super-secret briefing of yours included a mystery access code and a free dead colonel's eyeball?" Baird pressed.

"_What do you think?!"_ Rictor spat.

"Hey, we're up to our necks in black bag bullshit here, I just thought I'd check!"

"_You're a smart guy, Baird," _Rictor replied coolly._ "Figure it out."_

Baird was silent for a few beats, scratching the back of his head tensely.

"Of course, there are other ways to open this type of door but they're all… noisy."

"_Explain."_

Baird fussily adjusted the goggles on his head, searching for the right words.

"_Baird!_" Rictor's tone had taken on that dangerous edge. The kind that usually preceded Baird seeking medical treatment.

"I may have palmed some extra Composition D from the quartermaster for that demolition job in Parkway," Baird confessed.

"_How much extra?"_

"Enough to make a key that'll open a one-inch thick armour-plated door…?"

"_Get to work. We're heading down now."_

"Better if you stay upstairs. Comp D's a shape charge but all this debris on the floor will turn it into the mother of all frag mines."

"_Fine. We'll check the remaining rooms in case your trap door is a dead end."_

Baird removed what appeared to be a money-belt from around his waist, placing it on the floor and unzipped the contents. He produced three clear rectangular packets of a grey putty-like substance from the belt and a handful of micro-detonators from a compartment in his webbing.

"Take off the wrappers and start rolling those into long strips," Baird nodded to Schoenick. "We're going to stick it around the edges of the door and plant detonators in it."


	3. Chapter 3: Death Marks The Spot

_**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1720 hours.**_

"Mathieson, I can't see a damn thing from back here. Do you have a visual?" Ramirez restlessly shifted her scope from one end of the mansion to the next, Crimson Oak leaves rustling gently as the lengthy barrel of the Longshot twitched back and forth.

There was a brief pause from Control's end, punctuated by short bursts of keystrokes, then; _"affirmative, Sergeant. I've got two heat signatures on the first floor and a visual on Fire Team Two in the kitchen."_

"Any grub movement on your end?"

"_All quiet, so far."_

Ramirez rolled on to her left side and keyed her comms control panel on her belt by touch, selecting a secure channel to Rictor.

"_Everything quiet out there, Sergeant?" _Rictor sounded business-as-usual, a world away from the snarling stereotype that had all but chewed Baird out moments ago.

"_Too_ quiet. I'm worried, Andy," Ramirez looked up from the rifle scope, tracking from the mansion to the road stretching past it from her left to right.

"_Just another day at the office," _Rictor replied dismissively.

"We've had no enemy contact for four hours now. We're pushing our luck," Ramirez bit her lip anxiously.

"_All the enemy forces are concentrated further up the road at Ephyra," _Rictor said matter-of-factly. _"Damn grubs are hell bent on making us eat the granite it's built on."_

"You think it's wise to let Baird go to town with that plastic explosive? Remember those three e-holes Mathieson spotted?"

Rictor issued the long drawn out sigh of a man who was at the end of his ability to tolerate people questioning his orders but a few seconds elapsed before he answered and Ramirez sensed that he was biting his tongue, perhaps because he could understand his squad's reaction to this unusual mission. Perhaps because he knew he'd have to answer to _her_ after the mission.

"_Look, unless Cole and I find this intel up here, Baird's trap door is the only show in town and without our dear Colonel Avery, the only way past that door is through it. Will it alert any grubs in the area? Most likely. Do we have a choice? No."_

"Meaning?" Ramirez knew she was being petulant, arguing against inevitability: orders were orders. But it felt better to put up some sort of fight, even if it was only a verbal one.

"_Meaning the minute you start hiding doors behind the white goods, normal procedures stop applying." _Rictor paused briefly, and Ramirez was able to hear the light jingle of armour and weaponry as he continued to move through the mansion._ "Unless I miss my guess, Baird has found the entrance to a bunker or panic room or some such down there; none of which, I might add, is out of the realm of possibility for the head of an organisation that deals in secrecy. So while your concerns are noted, this is our best shot at completing the mission."_

"That's fucked up," Ramirez sighed.

"_If it was an easy job they would've given it to somebody else,"_ the Captain replied dryly.

"True," Ramirez agreed. "Listen, I can't see anything back here. You want me to move around to cover Shoenick and Baird?"

Ramirez heard the faint rustle of Rictor pulling at his goatee. "_Negative. If we have to bang out the front, you're our cover. Let's play it by ear for now but be ready to rock 'n' roll if it goes south."_

"Copy that."

"_Rictor out."_

The sniper switched back to squad comms and swept a wary eye around the surrounding area for the millionth time.

"_This is Fire Team Two, we're good to go here,"_ Baird broadcast. _"We've fallen back out of the kitchen and are preparing to breach the door. Suggest Fire Team One brace."_

Baird was all business. One of those little tell-tale signs Ramirez had observed that gave away he could be a good little soldier when he wanted to be. That and the fact that he had a passion for explosives that bordered on the freakish.

"_Copy that. We're moving back to the main hall to avoid any debris."_

Seconds passed and finally Ramirez was able to get the first glimpse in some time of her squad-mates through the upper windows of the hall. Cole and Rictor rounded the corner of the right-hand hallway and crouched down behind the wall that formed the rear of the dilapidated master bedroom.

"_Fire Team One to Two: you are go for breach."_

"_Roger."_

Ramirez flinched as a loud muffled thud emanated from the rear of the building, followed a split second later by the sound of shattering glass and a column of smoke squirting up into the darkening sky from the rear of the mansion. The already damaged roof shrugged off a few dozen more tiles, sending them clattering into the overgrown gardens; leaves from the ivy attached to the mansion's overgrown exterior were plucked from it's hide by the shockwave; and the surrounding trees in the garden rippled with the force of the explosion.

Ramirez trained her sights on the rear of the mansion as best she could, holding her breath as a thick cloud of dust rolled across the wood, enveloping her in the fruit of Baird's labours.

Then, no more than thirty seconds later, amid the slow descent of leaves and dust, stillness reclaimed the scene.

* * *

><p>Where the panel had been in the kitchen floor was now a smoking hole framed with the torn and bent remains of the trapdoor's hinges on the far away side. The debris from the damaged sections of the mansion that had littered the tiled floor had been strewn viciously away from the secret doorway, leaving a roughly circular clear area of floor around the blackened epicentre of the blast.<p>

The fridge which had stoically guarded the doors location for so many years lay a good ten feet away from it now, pitched on its side, foul contents spilled across the dirty rubble-strewn floor.

The section of the rear wall on which the fridge had been mounted had been dispersed liberally around the rear garden, giving the wall the appearance of a missing tooth in a decaying grin. Through the cavity, the forest and outlying acres of land could be seen, burnt a deep orange by the fading sun.

Baird emerged from behind the ruined wall of the servants quarters, dust caking his armour and face (his eyes protected by his goggles), a schoolboy grin etched into the dirt.

Shoenick ventured out from the protection of an adjacent bathroom, likewise dusty and energised by the wanton destruction.

Baird returned his goggles to their default position above his eyebrows leaving a strip of clear skin on his face and tentatively made his way back to the hole, wary of any potential weaknesses in the recently breached floor. The Corporal had had similar ideas to his superior about the nature of the chamber this trapdoor led to and was certain that the kitchen floor (or roof of the bunker/panic room) would have been structurally designed to withstand much more than an explosive charge but he hadn't stayed alive this long by taking things at face value.

Fanning away smoke and dust with an open hand as he peered down the hole, Baird's other hand shone his small flashlight on a metal spiral staircase descending further into the ground. Crouching down at the mouth of the hole, he gestured to Shoenick.

"Stay here," he stared levelly at the other. _No bullshit now, moment of truth._ "Anything other than me comes back up these stairs; you shoot first and ask questions later. Okay?"

Shoenick nodded silently.

"Good. Now hand me a flare."

The other did as he was told. Baird grabbed the flare like a baton and slammed the base of it into the floor, looking away from the resulting bright green geyser of light briefly before dropping it into the hole. The serpent hiss of the flare which had filled the kitchen when it was ignited, folded into a noisier, more aggressive version of itself, sounding more feral and dangerous now that the confines of the hole compressed it.

The Corporal stood up, cautiously placing a boot on the first step of the stairwell and activating his com-link. "This is Baird; door's neutralised and we've found a stairwell underneath it. I'm proceeding downstairs. Mathieson, any news on our hot little friends?"

A second or two passed before Mathieson replied. _"No, Baird. They're still holding steady, same position as before. Readings are sketchy because of the granite but I think you'll be turning through one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and going back underneath the mansion when you get down those stairs."_

"Roger that."

"_Hold your position, Baird. You're not going down there alone," _Rictor ordered over the radio.

"Top, it's a pretty tight space. We're only going to get down one at a time anyways. If there's a bunch of us in there and we get attacked it'll get messy."

Silence over the com channel. _"Take your time and don't take any risks. It's been an eventful day all ready, I don't need my report getting any more colourful."_

"Your concern, as always, is touching."

"_Get it done, Corporal."_

Baird unslung his Hammerburst and retrieved a small roll of duct tape from his fatigues. Ripping off a long strip he bound his flashlight to the barrel of the rifle, then looped the rifles strap back over his head and pointed it down into the hole.

Satisfied, Baird pocketed the duct tape again and moved slowly down the spiral staircase. He was conscious at first of the slight give in the metal steps but that was quickly superseded by his reflexive urge to check the room below for lurking enemies.

The square shaft accommodating the stairwell was made of featureless rough-hewn quick-pour concrete, probably steel reinforced Baird guessed, and was about four metres deep, ending in a metal door at its base that resembled the bulkhead door of a ship or submarine, replete with spinning handle locking mechanism.

The flare saturated the stairs, walls, door and Baird with a lurid, sickly green colour. The hiss of it was deafening in the close quarters of the shaft but Baird focussed on the handle of the door, one hand on the grip of his rifle as the other spun the wheel.

The handle spun easily, something that surprised Baird. The academic part of his brain automatically began listing the conditions that should prohibit such smooth operation after so long without attention. The animal part of him asserted itself, reminding him of the grey, scaled horrors that may lurk behind the door.

Thankfully, the door opened inwards into the chamber behind it, and Baird was able to aim his rifle properly with both hands as he pushed the door open with his boot.

The smell almost bowled him over; a heady cocktail of rotten flesh mixed with undertones of moth-eaten fabric with an aftertaste of the dry musty odour that accompanies decaying paper.

Baird spat, fighting the gagging reflex to vomit and the rising swell of nausea. He gave the briefest of consideration to what the regurgitated remnants of ration packs would look like before his stomach spasmed again, threatening to show him.

He rested his forehead against the cool, rough concrete wall. Seconds passed while he questioned why he'd been so eager to come down here, and then he turned around and looked up.

Right at Colonel James Francis Avery.

It was impossible to tell exactly how long he had been dead, such was the extent of the decomposition but the dusty pistol (the predecessor to the latter-day Stub, Baird's academic mind lectured) hanging limply from the withered skeletal fingers of the corpse's right hand left no mystery as to how he had died.

The desiccated husk sat facing the doorway on what once must have been an expensive leather executive office chair, the flesh of it now not unlike its occupant; dry, mouldering, distressed.

Avery's corpse sat in a roughly cruciform position; legs outstretched towards the door; arms wide open balancing on either arm of the chair; shoulders thrown back against the high back of the chair and head similarly thrown back, resting on one of the chair's wings.

The face of the once director of the Defence Research Agency was now nothing but a death's head. Shrivelled parchment lips pulled back grotesquely, exposing rotted teeth in a festering pit of an open mouth. A shrunken blackened tongue rested on yellowed teeth like a cadaverous insect venturing out of a disgusting cave. Hollow eye sockets sloped upwards towards the centre of the forehead as if in an expression of sorrow or helplessness.

Seeing no entry wound in the visible portion of the skull, Baird aimed the Hammerburst/flashlight at the wall behind the corpse and was rewarded with a large brown stain splattered just above head height. Long ago, several streams of ejected blood, bone and brain-matter had slid down the wall from the initial impact and dried in, giving the grisly tableau the appearance of a child's crude rendition of a rain cloud.

Baird stared at the lifeless husk, unable to summon up any feelings of regret or remorse. _Chickenshit bastard._

_Then again_, he pondered, _maybe he's smarter than the rest of us, living day to day, waiting to get picked off by the Locusts._

"_Report, Corporal,_" Rictor's tone was perfunctory edged with a hint of concern.

"I'm still here. Found our Colonel. Sonuvabitch ruined a perfectly good wall with his brains," Baird grunted.

"_Anything on Myrmidon?"_

"Not so far." Baird looked around him; the room was relatively small and sparsely furnished. An L-shaped desk followed the contours of the wall, supporting a desktop computer and a printer, the tray of which was full of brittle yellowed print-outs. In the far corner of the room a large metal filing cabinet loomed, adjacent to a large map of Tyrus pinned to the wall. The map was filled with red marker pen 'X's; cities and towns long ago lost to the Locust horde in the early years of the war.

Hidden under the end of the desk, Baird spotted what looked like a small humming engine housed in a skeletal metal framework. Cables snaked from it to the desk computer and a portable light similar to those used in repair workshops, the bulb of which had long ago been spent.

Baird noticed a few lights on the keyboard of the computer but the monitor was dark. He planted a foot on the back of Avery's chair and kicked it out of his way into a wall crushing one of the corpse's hands with a sickening crunch like dried twigs being snapped. He nudged the mouse, scattering a cloud of dust motes upwards into the resulting eruption of light from the monitor.

Momentarily blinded by the brightness, Baird placed a finger over his earpiece and reported back.

"There's a desktop computer and filing cabinet down here that I'm guessing the good Colonel didn't want Mrs Director Of The DRA and the kids seeing. I'll have a look around and see what I can dig up. Oh, and Mathieson, your heat signatures are an old-fashioned perpetual motion genny and that computer. I'd imagine that was what was keeping the light on in that fridge."

"_Good to know,"_ Mathieson said flatly.

"_A generator? Running all this time?" _Rictor sounded incredulous.

"They were a big deal back in the day," Baird lectured, clearly in his element. "Spearheaded a short-lived clean energy initiative just before the grubs showed up. Until they worked out that the mechanism had to be ten times the size of a car to power one, then the whole project stalled and people fell back in with immulsion. But this little thing? It can run forever, theoretically. Provided whatever's drawing power from it isn't too demanding."

"_Keep me posted, Baird. We're nearly done up here."_

Baird walked towards the filing cabinet and tried the handle of the top drawer. Locked.

He briefly considered rooting around in the rotting garments adorning the corpse, remembered the smell, then thought better of it and drew his pistol.

"Baird to Alpha: filing cabinet's locked, I'm gonna have to force the drawers."

The shots were deafening in the enclosed space but true: a neat hole punctured each of the four locks on the drawers.

Baird pulled the first drawer. It was full of old magnetic storage disks, backups for software on the computer but nothing of any strategic interest.

The second one was home to an empty pistol case (the negative space in the packing foam all too familiar) and a few boxes of ammunition. Baird instinctively grabbed the boxes and emptied them into his webbing.

The third and fourth drawers were filled with paper documentation of various projects that the DRA had undertaken prior to Emergence Day. Baird flicked through progress reports on the Hammer Of Dawn network, the burgeoning Silverback programme, weapons testing results for the mark II Lancers (prior to the implementation of the chainsaw bayonet) but there was no trace of anything relating to Myrmidon.

Baird turned his attention to the computer, instantly recognising the archaic 'Portals 3.0' operating system. He reluctantly had to give some kudos to the skeleton in the chair; 3.0 was out-of-date even ten years ago, but it was hailed for its stability and security by industry insiders, hackers and computer experts alike.

The screen showed the default desktop with a DRA logo emblazoned on the background. He snorted, before dipping into the menus and selecting the hard drive. Folders cascaded down the screen before his eyes, masses of information reduced to pixelated renditions of their paper counterparts. _Probably loads of super-secret shit on here, _Baird mused.

He scrolled down the lengthy list of file directories. Naturally, none of them were entitled 'Project: Myrmidon' or 'Things That May End Up Being Important After I've Ventilated My Cranium'.

Baird escaped out of the directory list and opened up the dialogue option for the operating system that did all the heavy lifting behind the simplified user interface shell.

His fingers danced with practiced ease over the dusty keyboard, entering a command that would bring up a history of the most recent keystrokes entered. A list of incomprehensible words scrolled down the screen, white text on a black background. Baird quickly scanned down the list, mentally noting prominent names or commands that cropped up regularly.

He brought up the search function in a separate portal and started entering the names he encountered. Shortly, he encountered a directory that required password access. Tabbing between the search engine and the keystroke report, Baird was able to guess the password to the file and entered it. _Bingo._

A fresh portal opened, tiled with tens of folder graphics, presentations and video footage. Each one's title began with the prefix 'ProMyr'. Baird double-clicked the first file that caught his eye, again this one required password verification.

As he was about to glean the password from the keystroke report, Mathieson interrupted; _"uh, Alpha, I've just picked up something that'll put a slight wrinkle in your day…"_

"_Don't keep us all waiting, Mathieson," _Rictor hissed.

"_I've got multiple heat signatures emerging from those e-holes, colder than humans, consistent with Locust. They're closing on your position."_

"_How many?"_

"_Hard to tell with them on the move but definitely double-figures."_

"_Lock and load, Alpha! Baird, grab what you can and get back up to Schoenick. Ramirez?"_

"_I'm moving position to get a better field of fire," _Ramirez breathed. Baird could hear her moving through foliage over the comm channel.

Baird dug out a grubby portable hard drive from a pouch attached to his belt and unwrapped the connector cable from around its casing. He plugged the cable into a port at the rear of the computer and used a keyboard shortcut to highlight the masses of 'ProMyr' data before selecting the portable drive and starting the copying process.

"_Mathieson," _Rictor began tensely _"what are the chances of extraction from here?"_

A smaller dialogue box popped up on the screen displaying a progress bar for the copying files. Above the bar, the name of the current file being copied flickered.

"_Uh, nil. You're beyond the fuel range of the nearest Raven's Nest, remember?"_

"_Any patrols in the neighbourhood?" _Rictor was reaching.

The progress bar hit 10%. Baird could hear the whir and click of the older drive sorting information and copying it.

Mathieson tapped his keyboard quickly: _"not a thing."_

"_All right, Alpha. Looks like we've got a stand up fight. Stay in cover, wait for them to make the first move. Position?"_

"_They're right at the tree line North of you. No more than fifteen metres."_

"_Ramirez?"_

"_Nothing yet,"_ bursts of breath broadcast over the comms. She was displacing fast.

"_Wait until they're clear of the tree line, Alpha. Pick your targets and put them down. Short controlled bursts people, conserve your ammo."_

25%. Above him, Baird could hear the sound of rubble being scattered around by his comrade's movements.

"_This has been a shitty day so far, Mathieson. Give me some good news, son." _Rictor's bravado was practised, a well-rehearsed act that both exuded a sense of calm to the rest of the unit and worked as a play for time while he formulated a plan. Even if they made it out of this clusterfuck alive, Baird was unlikely to compliment him on it but he had to admire it nonetheless.

"_Your luck may be about to change, Captain," _Mathieson replied tersely.

"_Go ahead."_ Rictor sounded slightly distracted, probably giving directions to Cole for placement.

45%. Baird could hear the harsh sounds of magazines being rammed home and rounds being chambered in the background over the comm channel.

"_Looks like the cargo Raven en route to pick up your Armadillo has a reserve fuel tank. It'll be tight as hell but I think it could make it."_

"_Send it straight to us," _the jangle of equipment accompanying movement could still be heard clearly in the background. Rictor sounded more focused, as if he'd just acquired a target. _"We'll pick up the 'Dill on the way back."_

The war had crippled the COG's ability to mass produce vehicles, armaments and equipment. Leaving the Armadillo to the Locust was not an option.

"_No bullshit, Rictor," _Baird was briefly surprised, Mathieson wasn't much for cursing. _"That Raven goes wheels-down your asses better be on the deck ASAP. There will be no room for sight-seeing."_

"_Don't worry about us, just get that bird here. We'll be ready."_

70%. Baird hefted his Hammerburst and checked the chamber. Good to go.

"_What's our evac LZ, Mathieson?"_

"_I'm working on it! Moving Ernie out to survey the area."_

"_Work faster, son. There's a metric fuck-tonne of grubs fixing to hang our collective asses on their trophy wall," _the veteran replied coolly.

85%. Baird stared at the progress bar pensively, trying to ignore the knot of fear in his stomach.

"_Ramirez? Darling, I could use a sitrep," _Rictor drawled.

"_In position,"_ Ramirez panted. _"I'm further West up the road. Got a good view of the forest and I can see Schoenick through one of the side windows. Nothing on you guys, though."_

"_You see any grubs?"_

"_I've got movement. Looks like infantry: Drones and Cyclops maybe. Nothing heavy," Ramirez' tone was measured, professional, punctuated by slight pauses as she searched the area through the confines of her scope._

"_Roger that, I have visual. Looks like they're sticking inside the tree line. Smart. Schoenick: you in cover?"_

"_Just outside the kitchen, Sir." _The rookie's voice was preternaturally calm, as if he was concentrating all of his will on the act of sounding composed.

"_Good man. When Baird pops up, you cover him so he can fall back to you. We'll give you a hand from up here on the first floor. Baird what's your status?"_

"I'm copying files from the computer's hard drive as we speak. Ten percent to go."

"_Game-time, Damon,"_ Cole chimed in _"you'd better quit getting your panties in a bunch and come up with the goods, baby."_

"You just worry about shooting straight you dumb jock bastard. I've got this," Baird said irritably. There were times, _many_ times, that Baird hated Cole's almost reckless lack of fear.

The big man's laughter nearly deafened Baird. _Super-sized idiot could enjoy himself anywhere._

The group comm channel was silent for a several taut seconds.

"_Captain, there's a clear area on the road to the East of you: half a klick away from the mansion. I'm directing the Raven to those co-ordinates."_

"_Good work, Mathieson. You'd better find Ernie some cover, he's got target written all over him."_

"_Copy that. Raven ETA time: thirty minutes approximately."_

Baird leaned heavily on the distressed desk, ignoring its groans. Thirty minutes? In a fire fight? That was a life time.

An unnecessarily cheerful chime indicated the copying had been completed. Baird began dismounting the drive from the computer and unhooking the portable drive.

Rictor ran through last-minute squad instructions while the Corporal worked.

"_Listen up, nuggets. We don't stand a chance out in the open so we have to hold these bastards here until that chopper arrives to evac us. Once the Raven gets here we'll use frags for cover and fall back by teams to the front of the house so save your grenades 'til then"_

Baird carefully wrapped the cable around the portable hard drive and placed it almost gingerly back in its respective pouch. Stepping away from the computer, he regarded it coolly for a heartbeat and then kicked the desk over, sending it and the computer crashing to the floor in a shower of sparks.

"_Looks like those grubs could be hiding in the trees until Frost, Top,"_ Ramirez commented.

"_Agreed," _Rictor grunted thoughtfully. _"If you're looking for an invitation to use that Boom Shot, Cole, I'd say now was a damned good time."_

Baird could tell the Thrashball star was grinning without even seeing him.

"_I heard that."_

Baird exited the panic room at a fast walk, rifle aimed at the access hatch in the stairwell above him. As he focussed on the square of light in the ceiling, an object hurtled through it, clattering off of several stairs with a metallic clang before coming to rest just in front of his boots.

"_GRENADE!"_ Rictor bellowed in disjointed stereo over the comms and somewhere above the mechanic.

"Ah, shit," Baird sighed.


	4. Chapter 4: FIGHT!

_**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1810 hours.**_

"Baird! Sound off!" Rictor was crouched down with his back to one of a pair of wooden dressers he and Cole had moved over to the remains of the master bedroom's rear wall to provide cover.S

Cole was to his left, kneeling behind an identical dresser, Boom Shot balanced on it's drum magazine on top of it as he tried to sight through the second column of smoke that had erupted from the kitchen that day after a Locust frag grenade had exploded in the panic room underneath it moments before.

Rictor looked over at the unusually silent big man, his creased brow glistening with a patina of sweat and dust, the anxious darting of his eyes as he tried to see Baird through the smoke. He felt that overwhelmingly human urge to console him, give him some reassurance that his friend was okay but Rictor had seen the bodies of too many Gears fall, knew that false hope (or hope lost) could kill a person just as surely as any bullet, perhaps not as quickly but just as effectively.

He pressed his earpiece again.

"Corporal," Rictor clearly accentuated each word as he spoke, as if Baird merely couldn't understand his simple request. "I need a sitrep. Do you copy?"

Silence.

Rictor looked over his shoulder. A mild wind was thinning the smoke but it was still impossible to see the woods beyond the mansion's gardens and the Locust hiding within them.

He fingered the tooth necklace around his throat and opened comms again. "Shoenick, I need you to break cover and check on Baird."

Nothing.

"Shoenick? Son, are you okay?"

There was a soft _pop_ in Rictor's ear as Ramirez cut in on a private channel. _"He's crouched down in the hall. Poor kid looks like he's scared out of his mind."_

"Join the club, we have ties," Rictor rasped.

"_You want me to go in?"_

"Negative. Can you see the grubs?"

"_I can't see shit. Wind's blowing the smoke right across my field of fire."_

Rictor closed the channel, returning to group comms. "Mathieson, we've got zero visibility. Can you get a visual on the tangos?"

"_Of course. What's happening? Is Baird hurt?"_

"We're working on that. Just get me some intel."

"_Affirmative."_

Rictor became aware of Cole looking at him, concern carved on his face. He slapped him on the shoulder supportively despite his pragmatism and called for Shoenick again.

Nothing.

Cole swore and whirled around, leaving the Boom Shot on the dresser and switching to his Lancer. Rictor caught his shoulder, painfully aware that Cole was stopping by choice not because his Captain was anywhere close to physically restraining him.

"Stand down, Cole. I need you here."

Cole stared straight ahead, his face unreadable in the shadows of the waning sun at his back. "We don't got time for this," he said brusquely.

"We need to cover him. If the grubs advance I can't hold them on my own," Rictor reasoned.

Cole shrugged off his CO's hand impatiently but stayed put.

Rictor took that as compliance and broadcast to Schoenick again. "Shoenick," he began cautiously. "Karl, I know you're scared, I know it. I've been there. I'm there every day, we all are. War's a scary business, terrifying, and no-one with any intact brains cells will tell you any different. But I need you to get it together. Baird may be one of the biggest assholes on the face of what's left of this planet but he's one of ours and right now he's in trouble. You're the only one that can help him, Karl. I need you to go out there and see if he's still alive. Can you do that for me?"

"_Sorry, Captain,"_ Mathieson interrupted. _"I've got heat signatures separating from the main group in the trees. They're heading South, towards your position."_

Rictor felt his fingers tighten around his Lancer. If the kid didn't go out there Cole wouldn't be talked down again.

Silence punctuated the long seconds.

Rictor opened a channel to Ramirez: "anything?"

"_Uh, he looks like he's banging his helmet off the wall."_

"He's still wearing it, right?"

"_Yeah,"_ she whispered grimly.

The veteran Gear gently slammed his shoulders against the dresser behind him, then collected himself.

"Everybody freezes, Karl. Every Gear. It doesn't matter if it's your first mission or your hundredth, everyone gets the fear." Rictor paused, picking his words carefully. "That doesn't mean you're a coward. It just means you're smart enough to realise the danger you're in."

Rictor paused again, painfully aware that Cole was watching him intently, that Ramirez and Mathieson were listening over the radio waiting for him to pull this out of the fire.

"And that means you have to make a decision; whether you're going to own your fear or whether you're going to let Baird die. Whether you hide back there and let your fellow Gear bleed out or break cover and save him: it's all on you. It's a shitty deal son, I know that, but I can't make that choice for you. No one can."

Rictor looked to his right at the hulking figure of Cole. The big man was leaning against his dresser; hands braced either side of the Boom Shot. Cole's stripped-down flak vest-like armour exposed ebony shoulder muscles that knotted and distended in the half-light.

The cordite smell of spent explosive suddenly became thicker, clawing at Rictor's throat and nostrils. He looked round to see that the wind had changed direction, blowing the remaining smoke from the grenade explosion into the bedroom and obscuring their forward view completely.

"Ramirez, can you see the kid?"

"_Sill got nothing but smoke,"_ the sniper's exasperation simmered under her practised even tone.

Rictor bowed his head, preparing for whatever Cole's next move would be. He heard the rasp of metal on wood and turned to see Cole aiming the Boom Shot down into the kitchen.

Cole took his hand away from the muzzle of the grenade launcher and pointed mutely into the diminishing smoke. Rictor used the dresser to pull himself into a half-crouch and looked where Cole was indicating.

The master bedroom extended over the kitchen, terminating about halfway along the lower room's length and allowing Rictor and Cole a steep view of the rest of the room. A spectral figure forged through the thinning smoke, slowly moving out from underneath the overhanging bedroom towards the panic room trap door, causing the unnatural fog to billow and swirl in his wake.

Cole caught a brief flash of blue: "is that Schoenick?"

"I fucking hope so," Rictor whispered.

* * *

><p>Schoenick wasn't aware of the decision to move out from behind cover.<p>

He remembered crouching behind the dilapidated kitchen wall, the icy hand of fear grabbing a fistful of his internal organs and squeezing gently but oh so assertively. _Going out there means death._

He remembered the sound of his CO over his helmet mike, coaxing someone into action but it was drowned out by the thunder of his heart as it ricocheted back and forth off of his ribcage.

He remembered the acrid taste of bile in his throat and the urge to throw up.

Then, through a fugue of indecision, he was suddenly on his feet and out in the open, moving through the dwindling smoke like a man who had only recently learned how to walk earlier that day.

Numb fingers gripped his lancer, holding it at right-angles to his body at waist height with no real guarantee that they would obey his commands but he slowly pressed on.

Presently the smoke receded to a light ground mist that bubbled up from the trap door in the floor a couple of feet in front of him. Schoenick paused. His arms worked unconsciously, shaking the assault rifle in a vigorous attempt to will him on.

Again, Rictor sounded in his ear, filling his mind with gruff but reassuring prompts but they were just unintelligible noise to the rookie. He was dimly aware of another sound at the periphery of his hearing, a sound like multiple dogs running towards him.

Through the last tendrils of smoke, Schoenick thought he saw something disturbing the long grass of the untended garden beyond the cavity in the wall left by the plastic explosive. Something moving toward the mansion at speed and leaving a furrow of trampled overgrown grass in it's wake but he didn't trust himself to look away from the trap door to check.

He took another laboured step forward.

There was a sound like wet meat hitting the other side of the ruined wall opposite Schoenick, adjacent to the void where the refrigerator had previously dwelt. Small fleshy claws scrambled at the top of the exposed brickwork and a Wretch vaulted over the wall, landing nimbly on the trap door, limbs splayed around the circumference of the hole to support it.

The creature, who not uncharitably looked like a monkey which had been clumsily taken apart and reassembled with it's skin sewn back on inside out, regarded the Gear for a heartbeat before bracing itself and issuing a high-pitched shriek that staggered Schoenick, forcing him back a few steps.

Schoenick imagined an orchestra of violin players sawing away at an off-key note in the auditorium of his skull, backed by a chorus of performers dragging talon-like nails down dusty school room blackboards as his legs buckled. He reflexively fired a few rounds, the noise of the rifle's report drowned out by the piercing wail, but the shots went wide as his supporting hand had already deserted the muzzle to cradle his throbbing head.

Suddenly the Wretch's aural assault ended with the whine of a lone gunshot and a muted whimper.

Schoenick was able to look up (albeit painfully) and saw the Wretch poised over the trap door as before, arms thrown wide in mid-scream but it's head had snapped up unnaturally towards where the kitchens ceiling should have been and watery red black ichor wept from a ragged hole in it's upturned jaw.

Three more shots sounded from beneath the creature, tearing at it's torso and somersaulting it into the grimy floor behind the trap door.

Metallic footsteps filtered out of the hole, increasing in volume until the barrel of a Hammerburst assault rifle projected out of the dwindling smoke, aiming upward at first before dropping down to cover the corpse of the Wretch followed by Baird's head and shoulders.

"Yeah," he spat. "Get some you creepy little fuck."

* * *

><p>Cole looked down at his friend from the master bedroom through half-shut eyes. Even twelve feet away from the Wretch, it's sonic bombardment had still battered both his and Rictor's senses.<p>

"You know how to make an entrance, baby," he called down.

Baird looked up, armour dusty, face smeared in dirt and streaks of blood, one lens of his goggles cracked, and threw a half smirk back at Cole.

Suddenly, in the forest at the back of the mansions grounds, Cole caught a glimpse of movement: a brief flare of light as moving metal caught the evening sun.

"INCOMING!"

Baird didn't even glance back, stepping forward he grabbed Schoenick's elbow and hauled him to his feet, spinning him in the opposite direction and hammering a palm between his shoulders to propel him towards the kitchens exit and into the bowels of the mansion before following suit.

Cole and Rictor dropped behind their dressers as a hail of semi-automatic and automatic gunfire tore at them and the ruined rear of the mansion. Masonry dust filled the air, pierced by explosions of brick, stone and wood fragments. Ricochets whined and howled like angry insects as they careened around the bedroom shattering everything in their path.

The onslaught abruptly ended and Rictor slapped the big man's shoulder: "suppressing fire."

The pair popped up from behind cover, the older man loosing short bursts of fire into the trees from his vintage Lancer, Cole grabbing the Boom Shot and taking aim. He sighted down the weapon's stout barrel and waited for that tell-tale glimmer again as Rictor continued to fire into the forest behind the mansion's garden wall, the harsh tappety sound of the old rifle's discharges punctuated by the melodic tinkle of bullet casings hitting the bedroom floor.

_There._

Out of the corner of his eye, Rictor noticed Cole's searching aim freeze, raise to compensate for distance and his body snap rigid. The older man stopped firing and dropped back behind cover as a muffled _thoom_ signalled the firing of the grenade launcher. Seconds later, an explosion sounded followed by the hiss and spit of a rolling cloud of fire.

Cole rejoined his CO back behind cover, a throaty chuckle rumbling from his throat.

"Handy little attitude adjuster this," he gestured to the Boom Shot.

"Yep. If we're lucky they might just pack up and go home," Rictor deadpanned. "Ramirez, Mathieson: can you confirm any kills from that explosion?"

While he waited for a reply, the veteran ejected the spent clip from his Lancer and smoothly slotted in a fresh one from his webbing.

Ramirez replied first: _"that's a negative. Can't see any bodies but it looks like Cole's little landscape gardening stint has them scattered."_

"_Confirmed,"_ Mathieson added. _"Fire's throwing off Ernie's infra-red but some of them are definitely heading East and West of their original position."_

"Flanking us," Rictor looked over at Cole.

Sporadic fire started up again, small geysers of smoke and debris erupting as bullets struck their cover.

"And there's _their_ suppressing fire," Cole hissed as he shrunk down further behind the dresser.

"Ramirez, can you pin down the grubs heading your way? Cole and I should be able to get a fix on the ones heading East," Rictor broadcast.

"_On it."_

* * *

><p>Ramirez was in position on top of a rusting utility van on the road lying to the West of the mansion, camouflage scarf pulled over her head in a vain attempt to blend in with the powder blue (marred with patches of orange-red) vehicle.<p>

Lying prone diagonally on the roof of the van, the elevation allowed her a relatively unobstructed view through a gap in the decrepit wall surrounding the property. Some seventy feet away, she could see the similarly crumbling rear wall just behind the rear West corner of the mansion and a small rusted gate leading out into the fields beyond it.

As she looked on, an explosion sounded and the gate launched ten feet inwards toward the mansion and out of her view, trailing plumes of smoke and chunks of fractured brickwork behind it.

Humanoid figures moved in the smoke silhouetted by the falling sun behind them, churning the cloud with their forward momentum.

Bursts of gunfire opened up again from the forest behind the wall and she could hear the sound of bullet-hits striking the North-facing side of the mansion.

Then there was a flurry of movement at the corner of the great house. Stooped over figures ploughed through the overgrown garden towards her, grey-scaled skin glistening and red-brown armour gleaming in the late sun.

She drew a breath, held it and sighted on the lead Locust; a stocky Drone wearing goggles like the rest of it's brethren to protect it's sensitive eyes from the light. She led the target through the scope, moving the barrel of the rifle just ahead of the Drone's right-to-left movement, waited until it had cleared the corner of the mansion and slowed it's pace, almost strolling between the mansion wall, a stone bench and a twisted, diseased-looking tree.

_You are nowhere near safe, asshole._

_KRACK!_

The shot from the sniper rifle was thunderous; rolling across the outlying fields and echoing around the mansion's ruined innards, almost drowning out the low-pitched inhuman shriek as the grub was slammed to the ground describing a wet arc of dark blood in the air from it's left shoulder.

The gunfire from the forest bombarding the rear of the mansion stopped abruptly at the sound of the sniper rifle while the injured grub's cohorts dived for cover, using the corner of the mansion, the bench and the tree to protect themselves.

"I think they got the message," Ramirez reported back with a note of satisfaction.

She took her eye away from the scope and reloaded the Longshot, relishing the smooth bolt-action and the sound of the over-sized spent shell bouncing off the roof of the van and colliding with the distressed asphalt beneath her.

The sniper returned her gaze to the scope and saw the grub she had shot vainly trying to crawl back to cover as it bled out. She couldn't hear but she saw the rasping shudders racking it's body as it simultaneously convulsed in pain and tried to draw breath after the winding impact of the high calibre round.

A head shot would have just as effectively halted the advancement of the group. It would have been the humane thing to do. But being humane wasn't her objective and neither was playing fair.

_Why settle for pinning down the enemy when you can deplete their forces a little too? _Ramirez thought darkly.

Sniper conditioning screamed at her to displace to a new location that would throw off the enemy's triangulations, making it harder to pinpoint her position. However, there were no other elevated positions to be found except for the copse she had left earlier and that gave her no view of the attacking force.

_They'll be looking for me right now. I've got one more shot before they zero me. Two at best, _she calculated.

Movement from the corner of the mansion caught her eye: a grey arm outstretched toward the wounded Locust.

Ramirez positioned the cross-hairs over the limb as it gestured to the crawling grub who was still some way from his would-be saviour. The Locust behind cover leaned back in momentarily, then crouched down and quickly scanned in the direction it thought the sniper had shot from before retreating back to safety.

Ramirez inhaled, held the breath and leaned into the rifle, bracing herself for the powerful recoil.

_Wait for it._

She could still see a little of the Locust's shoulder behind the corner wall and the barest sliver of it's chalk-white inhuman face.

_Wait._

It leaned slightly out for a momentary look again, sweeping it's gaze wide of where Ramirez was lying. It presumably thought she had displaced too.

_Your ugly bastard friend is dying, just lean out and grab him._

The breath in Ramirez' lungs felt like fire trying to burn its way out of her chest.

The grub flashed another quick look at it's injured ally, debated internally for a second and then stretched out an arm fully, revealing it's shoulder, some of it's neck and it's ghostly face.

KRACK!

A second thunderclap sounded from the muzzle of the Longshot and in the confines of the scope Ramirez saw the Drone's head explode. Dark ichor, lumps of fleshy matter and bone fragments blossomed, splattering the wall of the mansion and coating the nearby grass in a tie-dye liquid black pattern. The lifeless grub slumped to the ground, lost in the overgrown flora.

Ramirez reloaded swiftly and sighted on the crawling Drone. She drew another breath and then spat it out with a gasp as a barrage of gunfire assaulted the van.

The sniper pushed herself backwards, sliding smoothly off of the roof; eyes screwed shut, ears deafened by the cacophonic symphony of bullets on metal and shattering glass. She landed in a crouch, hugging the side of the rusting hulk and was showered by a cascade of fine rust particles from the roof as the van was rocked on it's fatigued suspension by the assault.

Slipping the shoulder strap of the Longshot over her shoulder, Ramirez drew her Gorgon, thumbing the fire mode selector from 'burst' to 'auto'. Sliding along the van towards the front of it and she edged her vision slightly above the hood, whipping her head quickly back behind cover just shy of the rounds that slammed into the metal immediately after.

Ramirez pulled the scarf back down around her neck and pressed her earpiece: "Control! I need a position on the grubs on the West side of the mansion!"

"_Sit tight, Sergeant,"_ Mathieson said over the rattle of keystrokes. _"I'm bringing Ernie over to y- oh shit!"_

Ramirez heard the gunfire start up on the other side of the van again just as Mathieson exclaimed but the vehicle remained unscathed this time. It sounded like the Locust were aiming upwards this time.

She cautiously leaned out again and saw multiple gouts of flame flaring from next to the mansion. There was a small explosion above her line of sight and she looked up to see Ernie's battered carapace screaming towards the ground trailing fire and smoke like a man-made comet.

The little bot collided heavily with the mansion wall, dispersing bricks every way and then hit the ground outside it rolling several times and shedding components with alarming regularity before coming to rest twenty feet in front of Ramirez.

Ernie's running lights and optics strobed spasmodically but the bot remained motionless.

* * *

><p>"Say again, Mathieson! I didn't hear that last," Rictor grunted, wincing as splinters dislodged from his cover by enemy gunfire lacerated his cheek.<p>

"_Ernie's down. I've lost my eyes on you,"_ Mathieson repeated despondently.

"Mother_fuck_!"

"_That's about the size of it,"_ Mathieson concurred dourly.

Rictor cursed again and leaned out from behind the dresser, spotting several silhouettes sprinting towards the mansion.

"Cole: tangos at two o'clock running for the right-hand-side kitchen corner wall. Covering fire in three, two, one!"

Rictor twisted around on to his knees and loosed short volleys of fire in a wide arc into the trees either side of the small conflagration Cole had caused earlier.

The thrashball star stood up, pumped a round into the chamber of the Boom Shot and took aim at the area Rictor had referred to. Finding his targets, he adjusted his aim as before and squeezed the trigger but this time the earlier satisfying _thoom_ was replaced with a _click. _He tried again with the same result and an attempt to reload only resulted in the pump-action mechanism sliding a fraction of the way.

"Jammed," the big man roared angrily, throwing the useless weapon down with a clatter. "Fucking grub junk!"

"All right," Rictor breathed edgily. "We do things the hard way."

* * *

><p>Baird and Schoenick were out of sight of Fire Team One on the ground floor servant's quarters under the master bedroom, crouching behind the partially destroyed wall looking on to the kitchen.<p>

The Corporal grabbed a basic-looking metal bed, indicating to Schoenick to grab the other end and the pair flipped it, pushing the frame and mattress up against the wrecked half-wall facing onto the kitchen.

Resting against the rusted creaking springs reinforcing their cover, Baird tentatively touched a cut across the bridge of his nose, examining his gloved fingertip to see how much blood was on it.

"_How_ are you still alive?" Schoenick peered at Baird quizzically as he squatted down next to him.

"Charm," Baird grunted continuing his fingertip exploration of recent facial wounds. A short sharp intake of breath accompanied the discovery of a broad abrasion on his chin. "That, a solid steel pressure door and a computer desk."

"Lucky bastard."

Baird turned to Schoenick and the rookie was able to see a red nebula of burst blood vessels around one of the other's pupils as he stared him down. "Lucky? Is that right? Not as lucky as you, though," he thumbed towards the kitchen. "You choked pretty good out there didn't you?"

Shoenick looked away; Baird had him dead to rights.

Baird rapped on the top his helmet with the knuckles of a closed fist, forcing Schoenick to look round at him. "Hey! It burns doesn't it?" He slapped the palm of his hand on the Omen insignia on his breastplate, right above his heart. "Burns right _here_, yeah? Pisses you off and embarrasses you in front of all of us seasoned warrior-types, right?"

Schoenick was astounded. _How could he possibly know how it felt? He was always so cocksure, had an answer for everything._

Baird shook Schoenick's shoulder roughly and pointed over the wall towards the waiting Locust with his free hand: "use it."

He picked up his Hammerburst and turned to face the ruined wall, clearing ragged pieces of plasterboard and wood out of his field of fire.

The rookie watched his superior for a few seconds as the other removed a couple of magazines from his webbing and put them within easy reach for reloading, then picked up his Lancer and followed suit. He stole a few more sidelong glances at Baird as he prepared for the imminent battle, noticing his focus and the determined set of his features.

Something had been shaken loose inside Baird by the grenade explosion. Something Schoenick hadn't seen before in his short time in the company of the surly mechanic. It wasn't just a fervent desire to survive the coming onslaught; self-preservation was Baird's primary function, a subconscious imperative like breathing.

This was different. It was more like rage. Quiet, seething, barely controlled rage.

Rage at coming so close to death? Anger at the grubs? Schoenick couldn't be sure but he knew instinctively that the words Baird had uttered last weren't simply helpful advice. More likely they were part of Baird's survivalist regime: he needed Schoenick to up his game to help him live through the imminent battle.

But there was something of a mantra in the words as well, as if Baird were goading himself into action.

Whatever the reason, asshole or not, Schoenick wasn't about to let him down.

As the rookie balanced his Lancer on top of the broken wall and upturned bed, there was a loud curse from somewhere above them and twin streams of fire erupted from Fire Team One, battering the right-hand corner of the kitchen.

Filthy crockery exploded, clouds of plaster flowered and debris flew through the air as the bullets impacted. Through the destruction, Baird caught a glimpse of shadowy figures at the corner of the building moving from left to right and squeezed off a few rounds before they disappeared behind cover.

Schoenick tried to track the same figures but wasn't quick enough. Turning back to the hole in the kitchen rear wall, he caught the snarling visage of another Wretch emerging from the grass and opened fire. The assault rifle bucked in his hands with a life of its own, the kickback forcing the barrel upwards and Schoenick had to lean into the stock to correct his aim.

The Wretch took advantage of the misfire, digging it's claws into the soft earth of the garden and propelling itself sideways behind the cover of the delapidated wall.

Schoenick tracked the creature behind the wall the way his Drill Sergeant had taught him at Basic, waiting for it to jump the cover like the previous one but nothing appeared. To his right, Baird's Hammerburst barked another few rounds though the broken window of the East kitchen wall. Alpha's resident sourpuss smiled grimly when he was rewarded with a yelp of pain.

Suddenly, the Wretch launched itself over the wall and the counter in front of it, a fleshy chitinous projectile with murderous intentions.

Time slowed down to a glossy, liquid state for Schoenick. He was able to see with absolute clarity the hate in the Wretch's beady doll-like eyes, the glint of sunlight off of it's yellowed claws and it's sinewy muscles coiling under it's malformed skin in preparation for the impact of landing.

Unconsciously, Schoenick's rifle followed his gaze and it was almost as if someone else squeezed the trigger as the creature dropped into the Lancer's sights.

Miniature explosions of blood caught the Wretch in mid-air and launched it backwards into the kitchen counter before depositing it on the floor in a bloody heap.

"YES!" Schoenick whooped, pumping his fist in the air.

Baird turned his head slowly to regard Schoenick with unbridled scepticism and a cocked eyebrow.

"Sorry," Schoenick muttered awkwardly.

"_Ad-vancing!"_

Schoenick's blood froze as an inhuman tongue navigated clumsily around human words, the voice sounding like a metal file being dragged across a concrete paving slab.

The pair's radios crackled to life: _"Fire Team Two you have tangos inbound at twelve o'clock!"_

A volley of gunfire peppered their cover and the pair were forced to duck down further but not before they both saw the sprinting figures coming toward them backlit ominously by the fire in the trees.

"Here's where the fun begins," Baird sighed sardonically.


	5. Chapter 5: Murphy's Law

**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1825 hours.**

The smell was sickly sweet and tinged with an acrid undertone of greasy chemicals that caught in the back of Ramirez' throat.

She looked back and further up the road underneath the battered utility van she had taken refuge behind. A shimmer of gold sparkled its way towards her: a haphazard riverlet that was slowly zig-zagging its way inexorably to her boots.

After Ernie's sudden demise, the Locust entrenched on the Western side of the mansions gardens had been eerily silent. She could hear gunfire from the rear and far side of the mansion but that was somewhat muted and the relative lull in violence made the steady drip of immulsion from the fuel tank at the rear of the van all too clear.

A chill flooded her body like ice-water surging through her veins as realisation dawned and panic set in. The impulse was fleeting, an emotional swell through her body that quickly evaporated as years of combat experience kicked in and she settled on a course of action.

Bracing against the hulk of the tired old van, the sniper gauged the gap between it and the next vehicle, a small bleached yellow compact to her right: about four feet. Edging towards the front of the van's hood, she took a tense breath and dived across the gap. Landing in a combat roll between the twin lanes of stationary traffic, she came to a rest half way along the compact's length, wisps of dust thrown up from the road marking her passage.

Gunfire immediately rocked the van again and Ramirez found herself glancing back involuntarily at the growing golden puddle behind her, even as she slid farther along the small yellow car in the opposite direction away from it.

The barrage quickly switched to the compact as the Locust glimpsed the dust trail from her movement. The bullet-hits transformed the car like time-lapse photography of a decomposing animal corpse: the frame quickly denuded of paint by impacts, glass shattering and metal deforming under the sustained attack.

Thankfully the compact was nose-to-tail with the next vehicle in line, a decaying people carrier, and Ramirez was able to continue moving along cover without exposing herself.

The hail of bullets abruptly stopped and the sniper fought the urge to peek through the windows of the people carrier. The grubs would find out soon enough that she had moved position. No need to give them a head start.

After another few minutes of quickly and quietly moving East along the queue of abandoned vehicles, Ramirez paused. She discretely peered over the bonnet of the car she was using as cover and checked her position: almost level with the corroded front gates to the mansion. She should have been well out of the Locust line of sight by now and risked a glance at the South Western corner of the mansion but her view was blocked by one of the few complete sections of the uneven crumbling wall next to the gates.

As she was about to duck back into cover, Ramirez glimpsed a Cyclops swing itself over the South West corner of the wall where Ernie had crashed through minutes before. Instantly she dropped behind the car but was still able to hear bricks being dislodged by more Locusts' transit. The bricks crumbled and fell heavily into the long grass some twenty five feet away.

Ramirez threw caution to the wind and began running in a half-crouch between the twin queues of deceased traffic.

She skidded to a halt along side another van as a lone gunshot rang out behind her. Quickly scanning in her wake she saw no evidence of an antagonist.

Another gunshot rang out but there was no accompanying whine of a bullet ricocheting off of metal. It was only then that she realised the grubs were not shooting at her.

A further shot rang out behind her accompanied by a low-pitched malevolent chuckle.

And then, in the distance behind her, there was a faint _whoosh_ of flame from underneath the van she had sniped from minutes before. A split second later a blinding flash of light seared her eyes and the concussive force from the explosion slapped her against the car next to her like a backhand from an angry god before depositing her on the cracked asphalt.

* * *

><p>The explosion overpowered the various weapon reports in and around the mansion, followed by two subsequent rapid juddering detonations.<p>

Rictor and Cole had been suppressing the grubs in cover at the North-East corner of the kitchen wall when the calamitous sound brought everything to a brief standstill.

Rictor dropped behind the dwindling cover of the wooden dresser, quickly worked out the direction of the blast and broadcast: "Ramirez! Sound off!"

Cole loosed another volley of fire at the grubs, then swore and ducked back into cover as gunfire from the Locust in the tree line started up again.

"The grubs behind the kitchen are on the move down there. Heading to the right to flank us."

Rictor seemed to ignore him.

"Ramirez, report in!"

Cole was reminded of the role reversal only minutes ago, shared the Captain's pain, but pushed on, placing a big hand on Rictor's shoulder to get his attention.

The pair shared a knowing look informed by Ramirez' lack of response.

"There goes our out," Rictor said his voice thick and uneven.

Cole sensed movement down in the garden and his hand dropped the spiked spheres of the fragmentation grenades on his belt. He was unhooking one when Rictor's hand stopped him.

"Wait Cole," the veteran said, his voice returning to its usual timbre. "Save the frags for our exit. We need to take out those bastards in the trees first."

The older man looked away from Cole, towards the back of the bedroom.

"How's your throwing arm?" He nodded to a small heater lying on its side at the back of the room. The rear service panel was open, revealing a white gas canister inside.

"Still the best in the Tyran League, baby," Cole replied with no small measure of pride.

Rictor quickly dropped to all fours and crawled on forearms and knees to the heater, ignoring the jagged debris cutting into him. Reaching the heater, he freed the canister and rolled it clumsily across the debris-strewn floor towards Cole with a push from his foot.

"Marking flare!" The veteran had to shout to be heard over another outbreak of enemy fire.

Cole removed a long pencil-like object from his webbing as Rictor crawled back to cover through air that was growing thicker by the second with dust and discharged weapon smoke.

Rictor leaned against the dresser again and peeked over the edge of the dilapidated furniture at the forest before turning to the bigger man.

"That's gotta be at least forty-five feet, Cole," he said soberly. "Maybe more. Are yo-"

"Cougars versus Eagles: Sovereign's Cup Final two weeks before E-Day," Cole intoned seriously as he struck the marking flare and wedged it in the hand-guard of the canister surrounding the small collar that emitted it's contents when docked with the heater. The flare splashed red light over Cole's face, painting his frown of concentration with demonic portent.

"The winning touchdown was made by little Danny Hansen," he continued. "After receiving a forty-eight-and-a-half foot pass from yours truly," the big man looked up at Rictor.

"Longest pass in Thrashball history," Cole's face split into a huge grin.

"Do it," Rictor nodded drawing his Boltok and cocking the hammer.

Cole lifted the canister and hefted his Lancer one-handed as only a man of his size could. Standing and using the bullet-riddled dresser to support the rifle, he brazenly squeezed off a long stream of fire into the trees to distract the Locust before drawing his arm back to full extension and hurling the canister in a high arc out of the bedroom towards the tree line.

Rictor quickly stood and gripped the powerful Boltok pistol in both hands, following the trajectory of the canister as it span end over end towards the forest trailing red smoke behind it.

The first shot was too late, missing the canister at the height of its curve and careening off a tree with a howl.

Rictor hastily cocked the Boltok again, the triple scar on his face tightening as his grimace of concentration deepened and he fired a second shot just as the canister began its descent back to the ground.

Again the round hurtled into the forest, this time slightly ahead of its target. A muffled howl of pain sounded from the trees but Rictor ignored it as he took aim again.

Cole realised with an awful certainty that the canister was going to fall short of the forest.

Rictor's pursed lips formed a pale line in his black and white goatee as he thumbed the hammer again and tracked the white drum over the sight of the formidable-looking sidearm.

Disappointment was not something Cole had had a wealth of experience of in the years before the war, but fighting on the losing side of a genocidal conflict had a habit of rubbing your nose in it on a daily basis. The loss of his professional pride though, that would be weighty casualty if they even survived this encounter.

With a whine the third bullet found its mark, winging the canister roughly ten feet above the ground just in front of the forest and causing it to spin laterally upwards and forwards in a second smaller arc.

A small jet of gas whistled shrilly from the crease in the curved metal where the round had struck the canister. Almost instantly, the small geyser of gas was ignited by the flare as the drum span into the trees and was lost from sight.

Barely a second later, an explosion spilled out of the tree line etching dark shadows of the front-most trees and the numerous Locust lurking within. Hungry spokes of flame fanned out from between the trees as a ball of fire rippled upwards into the forest canopy and boiled into the dusk sky above.

It was similar in size and intensity of the earlier Boom Shot impact but this explosion erupted from behind the cover of the tree line, causing havoc for the entrenched Locust.

Flaming grubs staggered out of cover into the long grass, a terrible chorus of inhuman shrieks accompanying them.

Rictor let out a gasp of breath he hadn't realised he was holding and rapidly became aware of Cole roaring approval, Lancer held aloft in victory.

"TOUCHDOWN!" the big man whooped.

"Not the fucking time, Cole," Rictor breathed, staring at the burning Locust impassively.

Cole frowned, concerned about his superior. He was accustomed to his victory celebrations winning over even the most negative of people (Baird), commemorating another win for humanity's survival and rallying everyone within earshot to that most noble of causes.

But Rictor wasn't with Cole. Not really. He was out on the road with Ramirez.

Cole didn't blame him.

Sighting down his Lancer, the Thrashball star aimed at the screaming grubs as they rolled around in the grass ineffectively trying to smother the flames engulfing them, only succeeding in engorging the blaze.

Rictor's hand stayed him for a second time, forcing the Lancer's barrel downward.

"Let 'em cook," he growled and turned towards the bedroom door.

"Boss?" Cole asked uncertainly.

Rictor aimed a thumb over his shoulder at the sound of gunfire in the garden; "cover Baird and Schoenick. I'm going to check our LZ's still viable."

"What about the grubs flanking us?" Cole hollered after him but the older man had jogged out of the room.

"Shit!"

* * *

><p>The gloomy main hall of the mansion felt like another world compared to the bloody hell behind Rictor. The distant sounds of battle echoed through the corridors and corners of the great house but sounded more like a television playing too loudly now.<p>

Rictor quickly swept his Lancer around the room for threats, checking corners and suspect recesses before peering over the deteriorating balcony into the hall below for any grubs that had perhaps slipped by them.

The shafts of light that had pierced the dimly lit interior through the ruined roof earlier in the day were fading fast, the golden columns reduced to a burnished copper by the soon to be setting sun. It was now the upper level windows facing on to the road outside that provided enough ambient light to navigate by but any delicate hues normally projected through them this late in the day were overwhelmed by the inferno outside.

Yellow-orange light saturated the hall, rippling with heat haze that sent shadows skittering up and down the aging wood panelled walls. Through the upper right-hand windows, Rictor could see a great blaze on the road outside of the mansion.

The carcass of a vehicle, its type and make now beyond recognition, had crashed through the garden wall and it lay grounded on a pile of stone rubble streaming smoke and flame from it's yawning doors and trunk. Beyond the wreck, the veteran Gear could see that the relative order of the gridlock had been thrown into upheaval by the explosion.

The discarded vehicles were now strewn chaotically, some upended, others resting on their sides, still others flung into the untended grass of the fields around them siring smaller blazes in the unruly dry grass. The flames gave way to a thick pillar of smoke that reached into the air like some spectral titan's arm bursting forth from the road itself.

There was a soft pop in the veteran's ear as a private channel opened. He refrained from acknowledging it for a second, hoping to hear Ramirez' husky tones.

"I hope you don't plan on being gone long, Boss. Those grubs are getting frisky," Cole accused gently.

Rictor inhaled slowly, retreating behind the command façade that had reasoned so coldly and logically with Cole and Schoenick only a short time ago.

"Don't worry, Cole," his tone was flat, neutral. Grieving was reserved for survivors. "Just a reconnoitre, not a rescue. Better start coming up with ways to hold those flanks: our evac route's well and truly burned."

Further behind Rictor, he could hear the rattle of Cole's Lancer as he unloaded more rounds into the advancing Locust. Silence. Then, tentatively: "how's our girl?"

Rictor was about to declare Ramirez KIA when he heard movement off to his left from what sounded like the library they had searched earlier. There was a sound of breaking glass, followed by the sharp exclamation of metal on wood, then the sound of that same metal being dragged away from him.

Rictor fell into cover behind one of the distressed couches he and Cole had discovered earlier, pressing his earpiece.

"Get your ass out here, Cole. They're rappelling up the side of the damned building."

* * *

><p>Baird plugged away at the Grenadier centred in the iron-sights of his Hammerburst, taking cold satisfaction from the explosive bursts of dark red spurting from the grub's pale bare chest as it spasmed and collapsed backwards over a demolished section of the wall into the overgrown grass of the field beyond.<p>

Next to him, Schoenick was hosing down the gaping cavity where the garden gate had been with his Lancer, forcing the embedded Locust to cower out of sight behind the wall.

"Watch your ammo!" Baird hissed at the rookie.

Shoenick acknowledged without complaint, silencing the roar of the assault rifle for a few seconds before a Drone vaulted over cover and he fired a short burst that stitched bloody holes across its legs. The Locust folded, landing on its forearms bellowing in agony.

Schoenick flicked the magazine release and let the spent one drop to the floor, grabbing a fresh cartridge and slamming it in. Chambering the first bullet in the new magazine, the rookie finished the fallen Locust.

"Better," Baird commented grudgingly.

The smell of hot metal from ejected bullet casings permeated every breath Baird took, mixing with the pungent aroma of stale sweat filtering up from his well-worn fatigues. He tried to drown out the mild lingering tinnitus from the earlier grenade explosion with the sound of the Hammerburst but the sustained shrill note in his ears sawed at his brain in the short-lived silences that punctuated the exchanges of fire between Human and Locust.

None of this distracted the academic portion of his brain from nagging him that their evac was still an age away. He guessed that this shitstorm had only been raging for about fifteen to twenty minutes.

He dropped behind cover to reload, aware of the tickling displacement of air plucking at the tips of his hair by the foot-long muzzle flare from Schoenick's Lancer as he opened up again.

He tried to quell the familiar pangs of fear twisting his stomach inside out by analyzing the Locust attack pattern.

The grubs had split into different fire teams like Alpha; until moments ago (thanks to Cole and Rictor's improvised incendiary round), a group were providing fire support from the cover of the forest adjacent to the mansion for a second group who were advancing head on to the mansion, while a second and third detachment of troops were working round the East and West sides of the great house to flank them.

Classic pincer movement. If they succeeded, Alpha were in for a serious shafting. Grubs probably wouldn't even bother buying them a drink either.

Baird's hands worked reflexively, mechanically replenishing the ammunition for the assault rifle as his eyes were drawn to the orange glow rippling through the grimy window to his right.

He had heard the explosions - _Hell, Jacinto had probably heard those explosions_ – and Rictor's plaintiff cries over the comms but he'd been so locked into the survival instinct of the fire fight that he hadn't considered until now that they might signal the end of Josefina Ramirez.

Unusually, he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He had never been keen on women serving, he'd made that clear to any idiot that had been unlucky enough to mention it but it just felt wrong that Ramirez was gone.

It wasn't that Baird found her attractive, although undeniably she was. It wasn't that they were friends. He tolerated her as much as he did anyone else. Perhaps it was an appreciation for her skills as a sniper: she was certainly one of the best he had seen.

More likely, he surmised, it could just be that awful feeling of knowing that the dwindling human populace of Sera had just decreased by one. That the Locust were that much closer to the inevitable extermination of mankind.

An eardrum-splitting roar shook Baird from his reflection as the damaged section of wall above his head exploded inwards in a geyser of dust, mortar, plasterboard and fragments of brick.

_Idiot! _Baird chided. _You know better than to worry about other people's problems. And you know exactly where it gets you._

"Grenadier!" Schoenick pointed to a section of the ruined rear kitchen wall protected by a robust looking old-fashioned stove. Through the smoke and backlit by the blaze in the trees flickering through a gap in the outer grounds wall, Baird saw the tip of the squat barrel of a Gnasher shotgun twitching behind the ruined kitchen wall as the lever-action shotgun was being reloaded.

Baird brought the Hammerburst to bear, fully intending to wait for the Grenadier to finishing reloading and take another shot at him but he was distracted by a flurry of movement to his left; three silhouetted grubs vaulting the gap-toothed walls of the mansion's grounds and sprinting towards the house.

Baird fired off a slew of rounds, felling the first Locust (a Bolter) but missing the two following behind who took advantage of their comrade's flailing departure to disappear into the smoke and shadows of the ruined garden.

A grunt of surprise from Shoenick forced him to change focus back to the Grenadier in cover behind the stove, just in time to see the familiar shape of a frag grenade tumbling through the air, chain describing an orbiting ring around the spiked sphere's core as it span toward them.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" Baird whispered as the grenade closed on them.

He estimated it would land short, falling on the other side of the wall they were cowering behind. _Still close enough to reduce the pair of us to meat patties if we don't haul ass._

Letting the Hammerburst fall to his side supported on its strap, Baird kicked off from the damaged wall into a sprint in the direction of the servant's quarters far wall. Schoenick was already on his feet and running, a few precious steps in front of the mechanic who shoved him in the rough direction of the door just as the grenade exploded and the pair were briefly airborne.

Their flight was rudely interrupted by the back wall of the bedroom. Baird could swear he felt every single internal organ colliding with the front of his body and rebounding back for the return leg of the tour of his skeleton.

He slid to the floor, feeling the abrasive mixture of sweat, blood, dirt and debris scratch at his face but not really caring. He twisted around as his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes, ears full of renewed ringing, breath forced from his body.

For a second, he thought he was blind as well, then realised it was simply the smoke and dust kicked up by the explosion that was blocking out the remaining daylight (such as it was) from outside the mansion.

In the post-explosion grey fog, a figure moved to his left, extending an arm out to the fallen Gear.

"Thanks," Schoenick said hoarsely, his helmet failing completely to disguise his fear and exhaustion.

Baird took the proffered hand. "Any time," he coughed. "When we get out of this, you can buy me a nice seafood dinner."

The rookie pulled him to his feet.

"_If_ we get out of this, I'll buy you the whole damn rest-"

_Krack!_

The sound was so familiar to Baird that for a second it made no sense to his addled brain that he should hear it at that moment. He had heard it countless times before on missions with Alpha. He had even heard it twice that very afternoon when Ramirez had ventilated some grubs outside the mansion.

There was no mistaking the sound of a Longshot sniper rifle.

_But… Ramirez was dead, right?_

Schoenick spun like a top, almost pulling Baird off balance as his hand was torn from his own. Something hot and wet sprayed across Baird's face, startling him as the rookie slammed into the rear bedroom wall for a second time in as many minutes.

He stayed there, pinned to the wall like a trophy in some hunter's grisly collection for a few seconds and, even in the miasma surrounding them, Baird was able to clearly see the deformed orbital of the Cog helmet and a familiar dark substance leaking from it.

Schoenick's corpse dropped to the ground unceremoniously, the impact spilling jagged fragments of glass from the helmet's broken eyepiece before coming to a rest.

Baird teetered on legs that hadn't quite recovered from the explosion and then abruptly gave way as he fell to the floor again. He knew he should be scrabbling for cover, avoiding the enemy sniper's sights, but somehow the shocked animal living in Baird's skin dictated that it seemed more important to acknowledge the loss of the rookie.

"Baird to Alpha," he said hoarsely. "Man down."


	6. Chapter 6: Danse Macabre

_Gears of War: Mansion._

**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1847 hours.**

Schoenick's still hot blood burned on Baird's face.

He wiped a gloved hand across his face, ignoring the compulsion to look at his palm afterwards. As he wiped his hand on his fatigues, he licked his lips and swallowed to hydrate his parched mouth, similarly ignoring the reflexive thought that he was probably ingesting minute amounts of the rookie's blood.

No one had responded to his 'man down' announcement, prompting the logical conclusion that Baird may be the last surviving member of Alpha. Movement and gunfire from upstairs suggested otherwise, however. Entertaining as the notion was, it was highly unlikely that the grubs were shooting themselves.

Alpha's luck just wasn't that good.

Cole had been shouting about grubs flanking them and Rictor had said something about rappelling up the side of the mansion but Baird had been distracted by the high lead content in the air at that moment and couldn't be sure of the exact nuances of the hollered conversation.

The smoke from the explosion was diminishing more quickly than Baird would have liked. Through the thinning smog he could see the damage that the most recent grenade had inflicted on the mansion.

The wall that he and Schoenick had been taking cover behind had been all but destroyed apart from some tatters of brickwork, plasterboard and timber that clung to the splintered wooden bones of what had once been a flat, even vertical surface.

The metal bed the pair had used to bolster the wall for protection, had – like the Gears – been blown some way across the length of the room, skidding to a halt just behind Baird and Schoenick minus two legs and most of its smouldering mattress.

The once expensive ceramic tiles that lined the kitchen floor were now blackened, cracked and shattered where the grenade had detonated, creating a monochromatic mosaic depiction of the explosion itself.

The flames from the forest beyond the grounds walls tinged the remaining smoke a vibrant pulsing orange and Baird was able to discern the edges of the kitchen boundary using the unnatural light.

Still on his hands and knees, he grabbed blindly at the Hammerburst hanging from his shoulder and prepared to move. He had to regroup with Cole and Rictor, fast. Any second now, his ridiculously high IQ would be splattered all over the wall behind him.

As he steeled himself to move, the Corporal glanced down at the body of Schoenick at his side, the perma-shock expression on the COG-issue helmet marred by the shattered lens and the small slick of blood leaking from it.

Military tradition dictated that Gears, even dead Gears, didn't get left behind. Necessity (and plain common sense as far as Baird was concerned) dictated that if he undertook a rescue mission for a corpse he'd join the rookie sooner rather than later.

The smoke continued to dissipate. Baird could make out some of the untended garden now and shapes moving in it, low-slung and purposeful.

Scurrying over to the body, Baird roughly pulled the breastplate down and unzipped the padded base-layer that all Gears wore beneath their armour to reveal Schoenick's COG tags. Grabbing a fistful of the slender metal links of the chain, the Corporal tugged sharply at them, breaking it and freeing the tags.

It was at this point, and with surprising speed considering he was dead, that Schoenick grabbed Baird's clenched fist.

"I can't see," the rookie moaned.

"HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!" Baird yelped in shock.

* * *

><p>Ramirez woke with a start, grazing her cheek on the fractured dusty highway. She all but gagged on the taste of blood and dirt in her mouth.<p>

Her jarred brain struggled to assemble her jumbled thoughts into any form of coherency that would explain her circumstances. Like the morning after an evening spent sampling Dizzy Wallin's finest moonshine, memories of recent events eked back on tides of thinning confusion.

Grimacing, she opened her eyes slowly. The early evening light was momentarily blinding after the darkness of unconsciousness but gradually the world came into focus. She had no idea how long she had been knocked out for but judging by the pervasive sounds of gunfire and shouting in the background (Human and Locust alike) it was minutes at most.

Lifting her head to better scan the landscape ahead of her, the sniper winced as her left-hand side ribs protested the movement. Attempting to move her left arm to investigate the damage to her side, she was alarmed to find something preventing her from bending or raising it.

Cautiously looking around, Ramirez found her body was nestled in the curvature of a liberally dented car door that lay across her back. Rolling her torso slightly to one side (pain duly noted), the door slid slightly off of her to the ground with a gentle _clank_.

Bracing her hands on the ground, Ramirez took a long experimental intake of breath, flinching when pain lanced through her side again. Taking another deep lungful of air, she tested the extent of the pain before allowing the air to hiss from her mouth.

_Fractured maybe, bruised certainly, but not broken. Score one for body armour._

Her aching muscles stretched and contracted under duress and the beginnings of a headache thudded dully at the periphery of her senses but she was in the main intact. She was about to push herself carefully up into a sitting position when she heard a noise behind her; metallic debris being ground underfoot by heavy boots.

Providing the Locust hadn't enlisted reinforcements, she was still looking at multiple-to-one odds in close quarters. Not good on the best of days and today was far, far from one of those.

Ramirez continued to lie prone, not even remotely hoping that the Locust would assume she was dead, instead buying herself time. Preparing herself.

Her hands felt blindly for her Longshot, still strapped to her back – _good_ – but the Gorgon didn't appear to be anywhere around her. Glancing around quickly, she found it resting four feet in front of her under the drooping fender of a bus – _bad._

It might as well have been a mile away.

Using the door resting on her back to cover her movements, Ramirez slid her combat knife from the horizontal sheath in the small of her back and gripped it with the blade pointing along her forearm, bringing both hands to rest under her bloody cheek.

The footsteps grew closer. Slow, swaggering she imagined: the conquering Locust preparing to examine the remains of their 'groundwalker' prey.

_At least two grubs judging by the footfalls, possibly three._

They reeked of sweat and dirt and death. Barking conversationally in their harsh alien language as they approached, one of them oozed a thick phlegm-infused snort of laughter. Probably the same bastard that had ignited the immulsion.

She felt and heard footsteps walking the length of her body and come to a stop opposite where her head lay.

A boot kicked at her exposed legs and she willed herself to remain silent while she made a mental map of their locations in relation to her based on their sounds.

A groan of leather next to her head was followed by a burst of fetid breath on her upturned face and the weight of the door began to lift from her left side.

She opened her eyes and saw herself, haggard and battered, reflected in the dark ovals of the Drone's goggles. The creature gasped in shock as she rolled rapidly up on to her side, an inhuman roar escaping her lips as her ribs burned and her arm swept upwards, driving the knife into the right-hand oval of the goggles. Blood showered from the wound, gushing thick and hot down her arm as the Locust gargled an impotent protest.

Her head snapped round, taking in the Cyclops to her left and the Bolter directly in front of her raising the massive revolver into firing position.

The swiftly expiring Drone was still holding the car door impotently at right angles to her body and she aimed a kick at it, launching the metal barrier sideways into the legs of the Cyclops and causing it to stagger backwards.

Using the embedded knife as a handle, she pulled the Drone's body across hers just as the Boltoks discharge deafened her and oversized shells tore into the corpse.

Head pounding, pulse pumping and breath coming in hot bursts, Ramirez gritted her teeth as the body bucked and danced under the impact of the bullets. Hearing the Boltok strike an empty chamber, she heard the leather rustle of the grub's Snub clearing its holster before she realised what she was doing.

Even fatigued and rattled, the biological database in her skull raced through scenarios, opportunities, actions and responses and sent the appropriate signals to her limbs to execute them as she watched the carnage unfold around her like a passenger in her own body.

She fired a volley of rounds at the Bolter, sending it crashing into the tailgate of an old station wagon leaving a cloud of dark red mist swirling in the air it had recently occupied.

From her left she heard the familiar snarl of a chainsaw as the Cyclops revved the Lancer's bayonet and advanced on her, bringing the assault rifle down in an overhead striking motion.

Ignoring the constant stab of pain in her ribs, Ramirez dropped flat on the asphalt and pushed the corpse of the Drone up to meet the serrated teeth of the bayonet, balancing it on one hand and the muzzle of her recently acquired pistol. As the chainsaw bit into the armour of the corpse, cleaving through with a shower of sparks, she fired blindly through the unprotected lower torso of the Drone at her attacker, pumping the trigger until the pistol's ammunition was depleted.

Suddenly the angry buzz of the chainsaw stopped with a strangled grinding noise.

The sniper and the Cyclops paused in their savage fight for life, their faces inches away from each other, staring without comprehension for the briefest of instants. Mortal enemies ferocious combat given pause by a quirk of fate.

Ramirez took advantage of the reprieve.

Thrusting the spent pistol barrel-first into the exposed lower face of the Cyclops, she smashed through yellowed fangs and almost rammed the gun down its throat, forcing the monster to recoil from her. Sitting up, she withdrew the pistol and swung it round in a roundhouse punch, striking the Locust a glancing blow on it's conch shell-like helmet and dashed it against the wrecked car next to it.

Pushing free of the Drone corpse, Ramirez stood, shoulders heaving with adrenaline and effort, looking coldly down at the whimpering mutilated grub at her feet.

Feet a little unsteady under her, she retrieved the car door from the road and, gripping it in both hands, swung the heavier solid end at the dazed Cyclops.

It connected with the intermixed sounds of metal deforming and bone cracking, scooping the helmet off of the Locust and once again dashing its head off of the car before its unconscious body sagged to the dusty ground like so much meat.

Shuddering breaths wracked the sniper's body as she collected herself.

The car door slipped from her dirty shaking fingers. She looked back up the road in the direction of the explosion, aware that she should be impressed by the burning pyre of twisted metal and the chaos of the scattered vehicles, that the brilliant orange of the flames and the contrasting charcoal smudge of smoke on the deepening blue sky were oddly beautiful but she was just too damn tired.

As she sucked in great gulps of air, she detected a burning smell mixed with an aroma of ozone and saw a ribbon of smoke rising steadily from a small puckered bullet hole in the drive assembly housing of the Cyclop's discarded Lancer bayonet.

Ramirez smiled in spite of herself and crouched down over the fallen Drone, pulling her knife free from its eye-socket with a repellent wet sucking noise that was just quiet enough not to mask the rasping bloody cough from the Bolter as it clawed at the tyre of the station wagon to pull itself upright.

The sniper froze, fully aware she was effectively unarmed at this distance.

Like its Cyclops cohort, the creature had lost it's helmet in the brief skirmish revealing its grey-white scaled death's head face. It glared at her as its mouth worked, the jagged fangs gnashing over and over but only bubbling hissing sounds emerged from its throat. She saw then that one of her shots had pierced its neck just at the collar bone. The grub's lifeblood pumped a dark stream down it's breastplate.

She stood slowly, taking care that the Boltok pistol was out of the grubs reach, ignoring its feeble attempts to sit up. She methodically wiped the blade of the knife on the leg of her fatigues, not taking her eyes off of the injured Locust and replaced it in the sheath secured to her belt at the base of her spine.

She backed up several paces and stooped to pick up the Gorgon, checking it for damage and finding only cosmetic issues. She walked leisurely back towards the Bolter who had now got a firm grip on the tyre and was sitting upright with the aid of its other outstretched arm. Passing the unconscious Cyclops she fired a burst from the Gorgon into its face without even breaking stride.

Ramirez holstered the smoking pistol before carefully removing the Longshot from her back. Gripping the rifle in both hands, she walked right up to the Bolter as it followed her with evil black doll's eyes.

Kicking the supporting arm out from under the Bolter, she waited until the creature had crumpled back to the dusty road before raising the sniper rifle high above her head. Hands gripping the barrel, stock aimed at its head, she brought it crushing down.

* * *

><p>Baird had dragged the injured Schoenick to the corner of the room.<p>

The rookie was incoherent, rambling about things Baird didn't have the time or inclination to care about.

Baird propped Schoenick against the wall in a seated position. He had no idea how bad the rookie's wounds were so he left the helmet in place. For all he knew the damned thing was holding his head together. Repairing people wasn't his field.

Beyond the ruined rear wall of the kitchen the smoke had thinned to a shallow ground mist and menacing shapes were moving through it, closing on the mansion.

Whatever the specifics of Schoenick's condition, Baird was going to have to move him soon. The neighbours were getting restless.

Baird aimed Schoenick's Lancer into the garden and fired in a wide arc, the foot-long burst of flame from the barrel of the assault rifle lit up the room briefly. Silhouettes dove for cover and the Corporal could hear the faint sounds of foliage and rubble being disturbed in the distance.

Then a flash of light reflecting off of the wide round lens of a telescopic sight caught his attention and he dived to the ground as a round screamed into the wall behind him, showering him in fragments of debris.

"_Ramirez to Alpha."_

The sniper's voice in his ear startled Baird. He rolled onto his back, eyeing Schoenick (who continued to moan softly) and then the sizeable hole in the wall where he had been.

"Nice of you to show up, Ramirez," he rasped. "Were you just waiting for the right fucking moment to make your grand entrance?!"

"_I've been a little busy out here, Baird,"_ Ramirez retorted venomously. _"What's on your mind?"_

"Just a couple of members of the Longshot Appreciation Society camped out on our doorstep here," he said flippantly.

Baird continued to lie prone and aimed another burst of gunfire into the garden.

"Schoenick decided to stop a bullet with himself and we're pinned down so anytime you want to get your finger out and help, sweetheart, that'd be just swell."

After a short pause, Ramirez replied.

"_I'm Oscar Mike."_

"Great! We'll be sipping those drinks with the little umbrellas in until you get your pretty little ass over here."

* * *

><p>In the main hall on the upstairs landing the air was thick with bullets and upholstery stuffing.<p>

From the library doorway, two grubs were laying down suppressing fire on the rotting leather couch, behind which Cole and Rictor were cowering as bullets whittled away their cover.

Rictor blind fired around the couch and then dived out from behind it, sliding along the threadbare musty carpet into the safe cover of a large glass-fronted display cabinet that stood almost reverentially in an alcove in the centre of the wall.

Another barrage of rounds followed from the doorway, tearing at the edge of the alcove and shattering the glass front of the cabinet, but the Locust couldn't get an angle on him so they switched back to Cole. Cracked leather burst and puffs of white stuffing gushed into the air as Cole tried to compact his oversize frame down as close to the floor as he could.

The shooting stopped as both grubs started reloading, one of them quickly moved out from the doorway and down the walkway that would take it towards one of the first floor front rooms and the large bay windows. Rictor fired off a few shots but the creature found cover behind a chest of drawers. Another Drone joined its cohort at the doorway and commenced firing on Cole again.

Rictor looked over at the big man, who was practically flat out on the floor cradling his Lancer. Cole looked over at his CO, a mixture of indignation and fury on his face.

"Now can I use the damn grenades?!"

"I'd call this a fucking retreat, wouldn't you?!"

The older man dropped to his knees and fired continuous short bursts at the doorway. He leaned into the old Lancer as it bucked in his grip, keeping it levelled at the enemy and was rewarded with the sight of the right-hand Drone being buffeted by bullets before falling backwards into the library. The left-hand Drone pulled back into the room just as Cole retrieved a frag grenade and the Drone on the walkway, who had a better line of sight on Rictor, opened up.

Rictor suddenly became intensely aware of Cole's predicament as the less frequent but nonetheless persistent chatter of the Drone's Hammerburst ate away at his cover, the remaining glass shattering amid showers of splintered wood. As he squeezed himself ever tighter to the alcove wall, he could see Cole still behind the couch readying the grenade.

The big man peered round the lower portion of the couch, much as Rictor had done, judging the distance to the library. He turned back to his original position as the Drone in the library returned to the doorway, weapon raised. As another hail of bullets slammed into the couch, Cole primed the frag, performed a quick spot of mental calculation and threw the grenade blindly over and behind his head.

Rictor's heart leapt into his mouth. If the grenade missed, they were both in deep shit.

The grenade sailed through the air, narrowly missing the handrail of the walkway and bounced clumsily toward the library doorway, coming to a halt just behind the Drone.

While the Drone in the library tracked the trajectory of the incoming grenade, the Drone on the walkway had reloaded and was bringing it's Hammerburst to bear on Rictor, who in turn was doing the same.

Just as the Captain was about to squeeze the trigger on his rifle, the grenade exploded with a thunderclap. The doorframe and surrounding walls warped and bent impossibly for a fraction of a second before bursting, releasing a torrent of man-made projectiles into the main hall.

The Drone that had been standing in the doorway was catapulted across the landing by the blast, its flayed and shredded body connecting sickeningly with a once elegant table behind Rictor's position.

Rictor spun to his right into the relative safety of the alcove while Cole hugged the floor as deadly shrapnel whistled through the air and a rolling cloud of dust and dirt reduced visibility to zero.

For about half a minute, the only sounds in the hall was the pitter-patter of debris falling to the ground and background exchanges of gunfire elsewhere on the grounds.

"Cole," Rictor coughed.

"Still here, baby," a disembodied voice choked out of the dust.

"You okay?"

"Feel like I swallowed a damn brick."

The veteran Gear fanned his free hand through the smoke, trying to speed up its dissipation.

"Sound off, Alpha."

"_This is Ramirez,"_ the sniper reported breathlessly. _"En route to help Baird and Schoenick on the ground floor."_

"Help them and then all three of you fall back to the road. That chopper can't be far off."

"_Roger that."_

Rictor could hear her groaning shallowly as her breath came in short bursts. She'd obviously sustained some sort of injury but he reasoned it couldn't be that bad if she was mobile and ready to engage.

"Don't you go getting any ideas about beating my high score, crack shot," Cole wheezed.

As the dust and smoke settled, Rictor took the opportunity to reload and it was as he was fishing for a fresh mag in his webbing that he heard the Drone on the walkway; the distinctive jingle of rifle sling clips glancing off the weapon's body followed by an intimidating guttural growl.

Rictor frantically fumbled blindly for a magazine, knowing full well that he couldn't find it, load it and line up a shot before the Drone fired.

A low-pitched ominous rumble groaned from beneath them and seemed to roll around the confines of the large hall accompanied by a shuddering tremor that travelled through the landing floor.

Without warning, the walkway the Drone stood on parted company with the wall, dropping to the ground floor of the hall and creating a forty-five degree angled narrow slope. The Drone was thrown off balance and plunged down the slope at breakneck speed just as the floor of the library (and the section in front of the doorway) followed suit and plummeted to the ground. Seconds later, the ground floor wall supporting the walkway and flooring above it crumbled and keeled over on top of the dazed creature.

"Dumb fucking luck," Cole breathed through a renewed fog of dust; his skin caked in white plaster dust that would have been comical had their situation not been as perilous.

"Uh-huh," Rictor said slowly, almost vacantly. His brain was still trying to catch up with the events of the last few seconds.

He was about to stand and check that the Locust was indeed dead when something light struck the floor to his right, in the space between him and Cole, and a boot to the head blindsided him, sending him spinning into the remains of the cabinet in the alcove.

The Grenadier dropped to the floor from the grapple-line that dangled through one of the gaping holes in the ceiling, its pale skin given a polished copper tint by the waning sun. In one smooth motion, it drew it's pistol and struck a surprised Cole a vicious blow to the head with the barrel.

Rictor's armour had taken the brunt of the impact as he crashed into the cabinet but it still hurt awfully. Through the pain, he saw the muscles of the Grenadiers broad back flex and contort as it struck Cole, partially obscured by a Gnasher strapped at an angle across it like his own.

He raised his Lancer, despair dawning as he realised that he still hadn't reloaded it yet.

Cole had rolled with the blow from the Grenadier's Boltok, turning into the rotten wooden handrail that encircled the curved landing. His temple throbbed painfully and something hot and wet trickled into his eye obscuring his vision as he looked up into the yawning barrel of the Boltok while the Grenadier took aim for the kill shot.

A savage roar emitted from behind the grub, which grew louder and fiercer within seconds until it was right on top of Cole and a grisly metallic skewering noise sounded.

For the briefest of instants, something hard and sharp pierced the Grenadiers chest in a torrent of blood and it threw its head back in a silent scream. Then with a flurry of movement accompanied by the sound of cracking wood and the quickly fading unholy roar, the Grenadier was gone from Cole's view.

The big man rolled onto his back and dropped his head to the mildewed carpet, letting out a massive sigh. Raising a hand to his temple he examined his injury, wincing as his fingers grazed the bloodied gash above his left eyebrow.

"Thanks for the save, Top," he grinned weakly through diminishing flashes of light that obscured his vision; the after-effects of the pistol-whipping. When no acknowledgement was forthcoming, he turned to the alcove but it was only occupied by the remains of the wooden cabinet.

_Page 8 of 8_


	7. Chapter 7: How It Ends

_Gears of War: Mansion._

_**Outskirts of Ephyra, 1900 hours.**_

Mortar and brick fragments crumbled to the unkempt ground as Ramirez slammed into the cover of the South-West corner of the ramshackle mansion.

Pain coursed up her side as her ribs protested the impact and she ground her teeth together, swallowing the urge to cry out and focussed on the task ahead of her.

Behind her, on the North-facing side of the house, she could hear the muffled roar of a Lancer being discharged in long bursts: _panic fire by Baird trying to suppress the advancing Locust?_

Peering around the corner, she made sure there were no nearby enemies and leaned back into cover before pressing her earpiece.

"Ramirez to Control: what's the hold up on that chopper, Mathieson? Our thirty minutes have been and gone."

"_Cargo Ravens aren't quite as fast as the regular variety, Sergeant,"_ Mathieson said evenly. An experienced operator, he was used to the frustrations and impatience of frontline troops, aware that it was all part of the rigours of combat. _"In a bizarre turn of events, I do have some good news though."_

"The grubs are pulling out?"

"_I said good, not miraculous,"_ Mathieson returned dryly_. "There's a functioning Hammer satellite coming into position over your location so I can get an exact fix on the Raven."_

"Great," Ramirez muttered despondently. "Now if only we had a laser designator."

"_There! KR three-eight-seven is a little under fifteen miles out from your position. Ten minutes max."_

"Roger that," Ramirez acknowledged gripping her Gorgon with both hands again. "Better tell them to come in hot, we're knee deep in assholes here."

"_Oh, they're well aware,"_ Mathieson affirmed.

"Stay on the line, Mathieson," the sniper said her mind racing. "I think you can help me with spotting again."

"_Of course."_

Ramirez switched to the squad channel. "Baird, do you copy?"

"_Corporal Baird isn't in right now but if you'd like to leave a message at the scream he-"_

"Stow it, Baird," Ramirez cut in. "Have you got a fix on your snipers?"

Another prolonged burst of gunfire.

"_Hang on,"_ Baird sounded breathless, she heard metal hurriedly brushing against metal as he reloaded. _"North-West of my position."_

"Okay," Ramirez did some quick mental arithmetic. "Sit tight."

"_Are you kidding me?!"_ Ramirez could hear the Locust returning fire over the comms behind Baird's shrill exclamation. _"I'm sitting so tight I could crack walnuts with my asshole!"_

The sniper barely heard him. She ran in a crouch from the cover of the mansion diagonally, sliding behind the refuge of the moss shrouded stone bench that the Locust had used as cover to fire on her what seemed like a lifetime earlier.

Waiting for a lull in the fire to the North West of her position, Ramirez holstered the Gorgon and shrugged her sniper rifle from her back, waiting for her moment.

In the great hall, Cole crawled on his elbows to the edge of the semi-circular landing ignoring the stench of stale rotting carpet. He peered through the splintered remains of the railing down into the ground floor of the hall.

Great clouds of dust, the last remaining resident of the property (and permeating the very fabric of it), swirled and rolled in the fading light. Through the murk, some fifteen or so feet below him, Cole could make out something on the floor: an indistinct tangled form.

The battleground was in the grip of dusk now, the sun having slipped below the war-ravaged horizon, and in the hall a deep gloom was setting in, swallowing the features of the people, creatures and objects in the hall and enveloping the structure in a growing darkness.

Reflective particles of dust in the upper reaches of the ruined reception area glimmered dully in the afterglow of the sun's departure and through them Cole saw the tangled mass below him move clumsily.

Getting to his feet and wincing as his head wound protested the exertion, Cole trained his Lancer on the twitching form and made his way down the stairs to the ground floor.

As he approached the form on the ground floor, the big man could hear shallow gasps of breath and the occasional drawn out moan. Finally he could make out the pale skin of the Grenadier in the gloom.

Sprawled face down on the debris-strewn floor, the creature was unmoving and Cole could see a dark jagged shape protruding from the centre of its spinal column, the exposed edges of the fragment gleaming wetly.

A bone-rattling cough wheezed from the far side of the Locust and a bolt of adrenaline shot through Cole, his aim snapping to the source of the noise.

Amid the sound of debris being disturbed, Rictor sat up slowly, reaching a hand out in a placatory fashion as another violent cough convulsed through his body.

Cole relaxed instantly, kneeling next to the older man and grabbing his hand to steady him. Looking over at the Locust corpse, he recognised the jagged shape in its back as the broken bayonet from Rictor's Lancer.

"Did you charge that grub?" Cole asked, a look of incredulity pinching his features.

"I was outta bullets," Rictor gasped.

The big man stood, easily hauling Rictor to his feet.

"You realise you have a big-ass shotgun on your back and a pistol?"

"You know, I clean forgot about them," Rictor wheezed thoughtfully.

"Crazy motherfucker," Cole shook his head slowly, his grin almost glowing with admiration.

"Yeah, I'm a regular Section Eight," Rictor gave another cough. "How are we doing?"

"Jo's helping Baird with his sniper problem. I don't know how the rookie is. No sign of the Raven yet."

Rictor retrieved his battered rifle from the floor, ejected the empty magazine and inserted a full one.

"It's gotta be close. Check this bastard for grenades," the Captain toed the corpse next to Cole. "Rictor to Ramirez and Baird: form up in the servants quarters. Cole and I will rendezvous with you and we'll fall back with Schoenick to the LZ."

Baird heard Rictor's orders, heard Ramirez acknowledge them but didn't have time to comment. He was too busy reloading, sweating and soiling himself. In that order.

Despite his best efforts, some of the grubs had made it as far as the ruined rear kitchen wall, giving them the advantage of cover that could potentially allow them to move round and flank his position out of his line of sight.

The mechanic was in the cover of the doorway of the servants quarters, leaning into the hallway leading from the kitchen when he needed to reload or avoid getting killed. He had managed to drag the damaged bed over Schoenick's prone body which would protect him to a certain extent but another grenade would finish them both off.

Baird chambered a round from the fresh mag and peered to his left. Seeing movement, he quickly sighted and fired a long stream of bullets, the first of which knocked a Drone back out of cover while the rest sent it toppling into the long grass.

"Fuck you," Baird breathed, turning to his right and looking up the hallway through the remains of the door to the kitchen.

Suddenly, the door burst open as several shots connected with it and slammed it wide. As the ruined hinged barrier bounced off the wall and quickly began closing again, Baird spotted the glimmer of the Sniper's scope again and retreated into the door frame, trying to make himself as small as possible.

He was barely in cover when the telltale report of the Longshot sounded and he felt the heat from the slug as it passed within inches of his head and blasted a chunk of wood out of the door leading in to the great hall.

Cleated boots landed on the filthy tiled kitchen floor behind him and to his left. The sound was small, almost innocuous compared to that of the sniper rifle, but it elicited a further rush of panic from the mechanic.

Baird crouched low and leaned out from the door frame, unloading into the Cyclops and watching with satisfaction as its doubled-up form was sent crashing into a dilapidated cupboard.

He swung back into cover and loaded the last of the Lancer ammunition he had taken from Schoenick. _And we're back to soiling ourselves._

"I swear, Ramirez, if this is your idea of a joke…" Baird muttered. He steeled himself for a few seconds and then inched his head out to his right.

And straight in to the sights of the Locust Sniper and his Bolter spotter.

It occurred to Baird that, as last thoughts go, 'well that was fucking dumb' wouldn't be chronicled in the annals of fame any time soon. _More likely crudely scrawled in the mess hall toilets._

Then there was the sound of shattering glass from Baird's left and almost instantaneously the Sniper's head burst.

The Sniper and the Bolter had hung back at the periphery of the overgrown garden, letting the other Locust infantry pin Baird down while they camped out behind a section of broken wall to the left of the archway where the gate had used to hang. This meant that Baird had the spectacular backdrop of the burning tree line to watch the Sniper's last moments in grisly detail.

There was an audible 'crack' as the grub's skull split apart, followed by a splash of dark glutinous liquid that doused the Bolter in it's cohorts brains.

The Bolter, clearly shocked, turned in almost comical fashion to the remains of it's colleague, whose body was still upright and aiming at Baird for a few moments before slumping to one side.

The remaining grub turned slowly back to Baird and raised it's pistol just as it's face exploded in a torrent of blood and bone fragments and the momentum of Ramirez' second shot drove the corpse backwards out of sight.

Baird fell back into cover, taking great gulps of air and glancing over at the ruined window to his left that the sniper rounds had shattered.

"_You call me 'sweetheart' again, Baird, and the next round goes between the lenses of those precious goggles of yours."_

Ramirez' tone was professional, perfunctory. Merely stating a fact.

"Um, okay," Baird replied weakly, any retaliatory remarks drowned out by relief. "Thanks."

"_You got any smoke grenades?"_

The sound of the Longshot being reloaded in the background.

"No but Schoenick does."

"_Pop one and we can bang out of this shithole. Ramirez to Rictor; sniper's down, this is as good a chance as you'll get to pull out Schoenick."_

Cole and Rictor had held back in cover when the grub Sniper's bullet had torn through the door leading from the main hall to the rear of the mansion and the kitchen. Stacking either side of the partially destroyed door, they heard Ramirez' 'all clear' and Cole moved forward into the hallway, sweeping quickly but deliberately.

Seeing movement through the kitchen door, Cole loosed a burst of fire at grubs hiding behind the rear wall as he drew level with the servants quarters doorway.

A tap on his shoulder meant that Rictor was behind him and he moved into the room proper as the Captain took up his previous position, continuing to suppress the grubs behind the wall.

The big man saw his friend stooped low over the unconscious form of Schoenick before he turned towards him, a freshly liberated smoke grenade in his hand.

Again, movement from his right caught his attention and Cole spun clockwise, firing on a drone rushing through the tall grass to get in position behind the kitchen wall. He winged the creature and it whirled to the ground as Baird's smoke grenade bounced into Cole's line of sight, a vivid white plume of smoke billowing behind it.

The canister rolled to the edge of the kitchen coming to a rest under the sink before becoming quickly lost from sight in the increasingly dense smoke it was releasing.

As the white cloud rapidly grew in size, obscuring Alpha from the oncoming Horde, Cole was able to look at Baird again; face dirty and bleeding, armour blackened and dusty. Cole tasted blood, sweat and dirt as he licked his dry lips and supposed he probably looked just as bad.

"You took your time," Baird frowned, shoving the bed off of Schoenick.

"Who'd you think was killing all these mean old monsters so we could save your skinny ass?"

"Whatever."

"Haul ass, ladies," Rictor interjected, firing another volley into the smoke. "That chopper ain't gonna wait for another one of your romantic interludes!"

As the older man bristled at his subordinates, a new sound cut through the smoke and intermittent enemy fire; short, regular bursts of bullets.

"Ramirez, sound off!"

"_Still at the North-West corner,"_ the sniper's transmission was broken up by another two bursts of fire. _"I've got a pretty good angle here, I think I can slow them down. Grab Schoenick and move!"_

"Roger that. Wait sixty and then fall back to the front of the mansion."

"Yeah."

"Jo, that's not a request," Rictor said tersely.

"I know."

"Speaking of 'romantic interludes'," Baird accused.

"Stick your mouth in neutral, Corporal," Rictor gestured to Cole who threw him the frag grenade he'd taken from the deceased Grenadier in the main hall. "We're leaving."

Cole slung his Lancer and picked up Schoenick gingerly, cradling his body in his massive arms and moving as quickly as he dared past Rictor along the corridor towards the main hall.

Rictor waved Baird past him before he activated the proximity sensor on the grenade and planted it on the wall next to the servants quarters doorway. Raising his Lancer, he moved steadily backwards covering the rear as the grenade emitted a shrill beep and a red telltale lit up on its spiked core.

Cole was already on the other side of the hall, effortlessly bearing the dead weight of Schoenick, by the time Rictor entered it. Baird's Hammerburst (Schoenick's Lancer was slung across his back) was raised to what remained of the first floor balcony, checking for enemies.

The sound of Ramirez' Gorgon pistol discharges had been growing fainter as the trio retreated through the mansion and then they stopped all together.

Rictor stopped, about to press his earpiece when the building shuddered and he was almost forced from his feet.

Dirt, dust and plaster rained down from the ceiling and some of the first floor front windows buckled and shattered, falling to the floor as Cole and Baird took shelter in the front corridor.

"_Oh, boys,"_ Ramirez warned. _"The grubs have themselves some reinforcements!"_

Rictor felt a familiar regular tremor in the soles of his boots.

"Shit. Boomers," Rictor whispered. "Get outta there!"

"_Way ahead of you!"_

Rictor broke into a run, signalling for the others to match him.

As they got to the front door and kicked it open, another blast rocked the building and the main hall door leading to the kitchen flew from its hinges, propelled into the hall by a gout of flame as the tagged grenade exploded.

Rictor, Cole and Baird looked dumbly at the explosion and blossoming cloud of debris for a few seconds, fatigue gnawing at their bones. As they stared at the destruction, the keening wail of breaking wood rumbled from the bowels of the great house, rising in pitch until it was matched only by the ferocious sound of stone being rent asunder and the first floor of the mansion gave way.

The three dived out of the front door amid a voluminous jet of dust and debris, tumbling down the front steps to a halt in the overgrown front grounds.

"That oughta slow 'em down," Cole coughed.

"You'd think," Baird wheezed wryly.

Ramirez rounded the corner, changing magazines on the fly. Spotting the men of Alpha sprawled on the overgrown drive, she sprinted to them as fast as her injuries would allow.

Baird was first on his feet.

"Lovely place. Real fixer-upper," he thumbed towards the mansion.

Ramirez crouched over Schoenick's body, checking for vital signs.

"He's still got a pulse," she said, fingertips placed on the rookie's neck.

"Fantastic," Baird said impassively. "Where did Ernie go down?"

"What?" Ramirez looked up, confused.

Baird bent over her, addressing her as he would a child.

"The bot. Where did it crash?"

The sniper stood, eyeing Baird sceptically.

"Really?"

Baird stared back at her, a half-sneer spreading across his lips.

Ramirez gestured to the South-West wall of the front garden, the sting of her sweat aggravating the minor lacerations on her face only helping to accentuate her ferocious scowl, and Baird made off in that direction.

Rictor clambered to his feet, staring at the back of the retreating Corporal.

"I'd act surprised but I just don't have the energy for futile gestures," Rictor groaned.

Ramirez shook her head as she helped Cole pick up Schoenick again.

"Baird, death and the damned Locust are the only constants in this war."

As they made their way through the thigh-high grass down the driveway, there was a subtle pop as another party joined their squad channel.

"_You guys encounter some local colour?"_

Rictor looked up in to the dusk sky, looking for signs of a Raven but finding nothing although he could now hear the thunder of rotors growing closer.

"Gettner?"

"_None other._

"I am damned glad to hear your voice."

"_You're not the first man to say that,"_ the Major replied dryly.

"We're about two minutes away from the LZ," Rictor scanned behind them as they moved down the driveway. "Gettner, we've got Boomers on our six."

The roar of helicopter blades had been getting steadily louder as they spoke and suddenly the thick black column of smoke from the derelict traffic explosion parted like thick velvet curtains, giving Alpha their first glimpse of their ride home.

The Cargo Raven bore the same fuselage and cabin as a standard King Raven but terminated abruptly where the cabin would normally taper into the tail boom. Instead, a slender boom extended spine-like from underneath the cowling of the main rotor assembly and extended to the rear of the vehicle forming the rear twin elevator array. Towards the rear of the Raven, half way along the 'spine' of the chopper, slender support pylons bearing wheels extended downwards to give the longer body support and a complicated system of pulleys and winches was attached to the boom in order to pick up cargo.

"_Well, Barber's got a door gun he's being dying to introduce to some grubs today."_

Rictor saw Gettner's crew chief, Nat Barber, manning the aforementioned gun, sweeping it left and right at the area behind Alpha.

"_Change of plan, Alpha,"_ the downdraft from the whirring rotors whipped the long grass around the Gears into a frenzy as the chopper got closer to the ground. _"This bird's got a mean thirst and handles like an assault derrick. I'm setting down in that field to the South of you instead of the LZ."_

The trio limped towards the front gates; Ramirez on point, Cole cradling Schoenick in the middle and Rictor bringing up the rear.

The Raven jinked further away from Alpha, the chrome fuselage glowing from the reflection of the burning car wrecks like molten metal, Barber training the gun on the mansion while the chopper hovered over the field before landing somewhat inelegantly.

"Gettner, we need to hold on for Baird! He's retrieving our bot," Rictor barked.

"_That's funny, Captain, it sounded like you were demanding that we wait and yet I'm reliably informed by Control that you are fully aware that our dicking around time on this sortie is exactly zero,"_ Gettner replied icily.

"Gettner-"

"_Get your tired old ass on the deck of my chopper, Rictor. Or the only thing going home tonight is that shitty old 'Dill you left back down the road!"_

"BOOM!"

Rictor whipped around as a grenade round sailed overhead and impacted on the already burning skeleton of a car on the far side of the road. The wreck spun into the grass of the field that the Cargo Raven had landed in behind the veteran as he saw a Boomer stride its way out from behind the demolished mansion.

Twice the height of a regular grub and three times as broad, the massive Locust were fearsome enough in close encounters but frequently carried the heavy weapons of the Horde making them devastating at range also.

There was a burst of gunfire behind him, accompanied by the shriek of rending metal and Rictor realised that Ramirez had shot out the chain securing the main gate.

Kicking the rusted gates apart, Ramirez beckoned Cole and Rictor through.

Rictor's brain frantically ran through the options; realising that his old Lancer wouldn't have the accuracy to hit even a target the size of a Boomer at this distance and that Barber couldn't get line of sight because of the garden wall and the myriad derelict vehicles, he signalled to Cole.

"Trade places!"

The big man immediately set Schoenick on his feet as he cleared the discoloured gates, supporting him as Ramirez took one of the rookie's arms and placed it around her shoulders. Cole unslung his Lancer as Rictor took Schoenick's other arm and he and Ramirez started navigating through the abandoned vehicles to the other side of the road.

Cole fired a short burst that glanced off the massive Locust' shoulder pauldron as it reloaded on the move. It roared it's disapproval but was not slowed in the slightest, slamming a fresh drum magazine of grenades home and bringing the Boom Shot to bear.

The thrashball player dived to the ground behind the stone wall as the archway crumbled to the ground in a deluge of fire and smoke. He crouched and moved on his haunches along the wall, moving slowly farther away from the ruined gate, until he found a gap in it and aimed at the Boomer.

Cole aimed low and squeezed, letting the rifle's recoil raise his aim up the grub's body towards the Boomers head.

A bullet tore a ragged bloody welt along the top of the Boomers skull and the creature staggered, stopping its pursuit of Alpha. It raised a massive hand to its wound and stared dumbly at the blood on its fingers before snarling in Cole's direction.

"_Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit!"_

Cole looked to his left as the sprinting figure of Baird burst out of the tall grass behind the South-West corner of the wall. The mechanic gripped the battered carapace of Ernie tightly as it streamed smoke and sparks behind him. As Baird disappeared out of sight behind the flaming wreckage caused by the earlier explosion, Cole saw bullets tearing chunks out of the asphalt and terminating in showers of light in the carcases of the traffic wrecks.

"_Gentlemen! The helicopter taking off is your cue to get your shit in gear,"_ Gettner cajoled angrily.

Cole fired another burst of rounds at the Boomer before disappearing into the narrow gaps between the ruined cars in the direction of the Raven.

Up ahead of him, the Raven hovered a good four of five feet above the ground. Rictor and Ramirez were in the cabin having strapped the unconscious Schoenick into one of the fore bucket seats.

There was another explosion behind him but Cole didn't turn round, even as he felt a wall of heat radiate behind him. He was focused on the chopper, sprinting powerfully for it just as he had done to the score zone so many times at the Cougar's stadium in Hanover.

As he cleared the last of the wrecked cars and made it out into the open field, Baird joined him at his right, clutching Ernie's charred remains to his chest like his firstborn. The bot's arms bounced rhythmically in time with Baird's pumping legs, giving the impression that the now lifeless mechanical was waving for help.

Cole couldn't even manage a grin.

The pair reached the chopper simultaneously, fighting their way through the vicious downdraft and arriving as the deck of the cabin hung at about head height off of the ground.

Baird slid Ernie onto the deck as Rictor grabbed his still outreached hand. The Captain helped him on board, pausing just as Baird was precariously balanced with one foot on the deck to deliver a meaningful glance before pulling him into the cabin.

"A little help!" gasped Ramirez to his right, struggling with Cole's massive bulk.

Rictor and the sniper took an arm each and pulled Cole onto the deck before falling back into the cabin with him.

The Raven dropped suddenly, suspending Alpha's collective stomachs in zero gravity for a heartbeat.

"Hold on to your rations, Alpha," Barber called knowingly over his shoulder.

The engine above their heads gave a throaty rumble and the ungainly aircraft rose steadily into the air.

As they gained altitude, Rictor could see clearly see the disarray of the scattered abandoned vehicles, re-emphasised by the Boomer's recent efforts to eliminate Cole. Higher still, and he saw the Boomer itself as it approached a ruined section of the wall and raised it's grenade launcher at them.

Suddenly, there was a loud whirring of countless well-greased parts interlocking and feeding, and Barber opened up with the door gun. The whirring was drowned out by a low-pitched bass-filled drone that vibrated throughout the cabin and a stream of light armour piercing bullets screamed towards the Boomer.

Bullet hits chewed up great chunks of asphalt as the gun carved a path toward the massive Locust. The all ready fatigued metal of the derelict vehicles buckled and shattered under the sheer concentration of fire. The section of stone wall the Boomer was located behind disappeared in a flurry of dust and debris as the gun stitched round after round up it and into the bloated torso of the grub. Explosions of red erupted up the length of it's midriff culminating in the complete dissolution of it's skull in a matter of seconds.

The corpse, which had been reduced to so much shuddering red meat, pitched backward into the untended garden before Barber turned his attention to the Locust infantry that had been pursuing Baird. The door gun spat death again, dismembering and destroying the handful of grubs that had not had the opportunity or good sense to flee.

Rictor noticed a distinct nebulous dark red mist hung in the air where the Locust had been standing mere moments ago.

"All right, boys and girl," Gettner called out over her shoulder as the whirring of the door gun gradually ground to a halt and the Raven lurched higher into the air. "Next stop Jacinto City via a pit-stop in scenic Middle-Of-Nowhere. Rictor, you want me to call it in?"

The veteran turned his head and regarded her silently for some moments.

Gettner's hawkish features and fluttering short hair were washed in red light from the cockpit instrumentation. Her ever-present comms headset (for the life of him, Rictor couldn't picture her without it although he'd seen her in the mess on frequent occasions) framed her face, the mic covering her narrow caustic mouth but her eyes spoke volumes.

An experienced pilot (the highest ranking one left in the COG air corps) who'd seen a world of atrocity, she didn't say another word or offer any platitudes. That wasn't her style but Rictor knew exactly what she was thinking.

_You guys look like hammered shit._

As he looked around his bloody and dishevelled squad, he couldn't fail to agree.

"No," he shouted over the din of the rotors overhead. "I've got this."

While Barber removed a first aid kit from fittings on a nearby bulkhead and looked over Schoenick, Rictor keyed the comms channel for Control.

"Control, this is Alpha Four. Put me through to Colonel Hoffman."

_Page 9 of 9_


	8. Epilogue

_**Coalition Head Quarters, Ehyra, 0237 hours**__._

The night was quiet one for a city under siege.

The distant sound of mortars and anti-aircraft fire only occasionally wafted through the open window of Rictor's barracks quarters. The perimeter breach klaxons - indicating a Locust incursion - hadn't sounded for the first time in several nights, so it sounded like the Reavers, the long-limbed flying mounts of the Horde, were back to testing the COG defences.

Blackout curtains swathed the room in darkness save for a small candle wedged in the neck of an ancient whiskey bottle that guttered occasionally in the slight breeze but held true.

Rictor lay in bed with his hands behind his head, watching the soft warm currents of air seep out from under the curtains and disperse his exhaled cigar smoke. Beside him (because one of the few perks he could think of for officers during these dark days was having an actual bed rather than a cot) Ramirez was sleeping on her side, arm draped across his chest, head resting on his shoulder.

Her nose wrinkled unconsciously as she breathed in cigar smoke and her muscles tensed lightly as a small involuntarily cough escaped her lips.

Rictor futilely attempted to blow smoke away from her, stubbing out the stoagie on a dented metal mess hall plate on the bedside table and fanning away the remaining fumes with his free hand.

Ramirez sighed shallowly and drew in a little closer to him before her breathing quickly returned to slow, even peaks and troughs.

The veteran continued to watch her, admiring the smooth olive skin of her athletic body (the odd scar here and there that somehow managed to accentuate her beauty, unlike his bullet-ridden hide which looked like a relief map of Ephyra in this light), the swirls of a South islands Bakuaia tattoo that spread from her exposed shoulder across her collar bone and down to the swell of her rising and falling breast (so much more graceful than his own 26th Royal Tyran Infantry Skull and Lancers one). Just visible above the top of the sheets were the beginnings of the amorphous purple-black bruises that covered a good portion of her ribs on both sides from the explosion outside the mansion earlier.

A small smile played across her lips.

"Anyone ever tell you that you were a dirty old man?"

"Not recently," Rictor replied, a faint note of sadness underpinning the statement as he glanced at a tarnished wedding band on his left hand. "Maybe you oughta trade up for a younger, more reputable model."

Ramirez opened her eyes and moved her hand upwards from the tangled mass of salt-and-pepper hair on his chest, pulling his chin to hers and kissing him deeply before breaking and looking at him evenly. Rictor stared back at her, that one slate-grey eye searching for something in hers.

She rolled over onto her back, pulling the sheet with her to cover herself and took a slow breath before addressing the ceiling; "most people – not Gears, I'll give you – but most _real_ people would've been exhausted after a firefight, after the adrenaline rush has left them. I know for a fact the fifth of Wallin's moonshine you necked would've floored a lot of guys hands down on its own."

"I swear he uses it to de-grease the engine on that piece-of-shit derrick," Rictor grinned weakly, trying to diffuse the argument he knew was coming.

Ramirez turned to Rictor, a half-mocking grin creeping across her face. "But I really thought my own personal style of debriefing," she smiled again, a rogue-ish twinkle in her eyes "would've tired that big brain of yours out."

"Sorry, darlin'," Rictor began sheepishly. "I'm totally wi-"

Ramirez placed a finger firmly over his lips, stopping him.

"But not you," she accused quietly, a note of indignation in her voice that she hadn't intended to add, the sly glimmer gone from her deep brown eyes. "You're still sitting here stewing over the damned mission!"

The slight embarrassment in his face disappeared under a scowl of anger and resentment. Rictor's eye patch had been removed earlier, discarded on the floor with the rest of his clothes before their exhausted semi-drunk coupling. The barren socket was covered by the remains of his stitched together eyelid but it hid nothing of the attack's ferocity, a tangle of jagged angry scars that twitched and writhed as his brow moved.

The Captain sat up, his powerful shoulders working up and down as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not the mission," he said slowly, as if searching for the right words. "It's _him_."

"You're losing sleep over Baird?!"

"It doesn't make sense him just handing over that drive to the Onyx Guard. He's gotta have a copy stashed away somewhere."

Ramirez threw her hands up.

"Great! Go talk to him – there's too many people in this bed!"

Rictor turned to her questioningly.

She looked back, saw it wasn't just the moonshine talking and dropped her head to the pillow heavily. "Go," she sighed, her voice terse with emotion and pain from her bruised ribs.

Rictor got up from the creaking bed, pulled on some well-worn fatigues, a moth-eaten t-shirt that had had the sleeves ripped off of it long ago, picked up his boots and the discarded eye patch.

He was turning the handle on the door before Ramirez spoke again.

"He nearly died today. If it was me, I'd want to know what for," she opined.

Rictor opened the door but didn't turn back to her.

"We all nearly died today," he replied flatly and then was gone.

"Good point," she conceded, running a hand through her hair.

* * *

><p>Rictor stalked through the engineering bays of the COG's motor pool flitting between harsh yellow spotlights, a plume of stale-smelling cigar smoke lingering in his wake like an old-fashioned steam engine chugging towards its destination.<p>

Even this late at night, there were still members of the Engineering Corps (affectionately known as 'knuckle-draggers') crewing the bays, repairing and fuelling vehicles, prepping heavy armour for sorties, and maintaining others. The clank of spanners, fluid clicking of socket wrenches and the hiss of welding torches filled the night air.

The Gears may be the ones laying their lives on the line each and every day but the knuckle-draggers were the (mostly) silent backbone of the armed forces; getting the Gears where they were needed time and again.

Those crews that spotted the veteran's brisk passage through the grimy bays saluted, salutes which were returned reflexively as Rictor seethed his way towards Baird's workshop at the rear of the motor pool.

The Onyx Guards who were waiting on their Raven's designated landing pad for Alpha had appropriated the drive containing the Project Myrmidon data before they'd even had a chance to disembark, let alone get Schoenick into the care of Doc Hayman's similarly waiting medical personnel.

The more Rictor thought about Baird just handing over the drive to Prescott's lackeys without incident (sure he'd made some barbed comment but that was just Baird, every time he opened his mouth something unpleasant came out), the more certain he was that something else was going on. It was just _too_ easy.

Eventually, Rictor covered the length of the motor pool and arrived at Baird's workshop; a grubby construction of wood and metal that looked to have been some form of foreman's office prior to the war. The dusty yellowing glass had been crudely painted over from the inside to obscure whatever activities the surly mechanic was conducting inside.

On the door, a sign finger-painted in grease proclaimed: IF YOU CAN READ THIS, FUCK OFF.

Rictor planted a boot in the middle of the door, just below the warning sign, enjoyed the sound of splintering wood.

Baird looked up from the bowels of Ernie's naked chassis (his dented and compromised carapace had been removed), a small stream of smoke spiralled into the air from the circuit board he'd been soldering. The mechanic's eyes narrowed with a look of disgust.

"I guess you can't read then."

Rictor barely broke his stride after kicking the door open. He steamed straight into the makeshift workshop and grabbed Baird's throat, pinning him painfully up against the workbench with a thick swarthy arm. Baird scattered a pile of the bot's sections of abused skin as he flailed in Rictor's grip.

"Where?!"

The word all but spat from Rictor's lips.

"You're going to have to help me out on that one," Baird choked. "I'm a genius but I'm not psychic!"

The older man threw Baird to the ground, pacing back and forth next to his gasping form like a caged animal.

"The data from the mansion," Rictor growled. "Where is it?"

Baird collapsed against one of the legs of the workbench, ignoring the further shower of Ernie's remaining metal plates that cascaded to the greasy worn floor.

"You were right there in the Raven! I gave it to those smug Onyx fucks!"

The workshop was a scrap merchant's treasure trove. Piles of discarded and scavenged electronic, electrical and mechanical parts were stacked on every available surface and in piles that lined the walls in no readily apparent order. Where there weren't components there were books; rescued tomes of not-so ancient knowledge stacked and littering the space, filling the gaps where the hoarded tech salvage ended. Crammed into the corner of the all ready cramped room, next to a gas cylinder for a welding torch, was a rickety cot that was host to reasonably clean rumpled bed clothes, some more books and a collection of tarnished used dinner utensils.

Rictor took all of this in, none of it surprising him even though he had never ventured down into Baird's lair before now, before turning to the Corporal.

"Oh, I saw that," Rictor hissed. "It's the copy I want."

Baird looked up at him mutely.

Rictor stopped mid-pace and crouched down low in front of Baird meeting him eye-to-eye.

"You had plenty of time in that bunker to copy all the intel you downloaded," he said dangerously.

"I do-"

Baird had discarded his plate armour but kept the dark base layer on as he had been tinkering with Ernie and it was this that the veteran Gear grabbed, bunching the high-wicking padded material up around his chin as he pulled him from his knees and threw him across the room.

"DON'T LIE TO ME!"

Components, scavenged metal and aging books scattered as Baird hit the wall. He lay in the midst of the toppled columns of scavenged goods for some seconds before slowly pulling himself into a sitting position. As the clatter of streams of mechanical and electronic viscera trickling to the floor petered out, he looked up at Rictor, mocking sneer in place.

"So you figured that _if_ I had made a copy of that data – and I'm not saying I did – you'd just come down here, beat a confession out of me and I'd hand it over?"

Rictor was silent. The tip of his cigar pulsed between bright orange and duller red embers as he breathed in and out.

"This may come as a shock to you, _Sir,_" Baird leered. "But this isn't my first beating."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Rictor said absently.

Baird stared a challenge at the older man for a few seconds.

"Are we done here or do you want to skip to round two?"

When nothing further was forthcoming, he stood, dusted himself off and spat just beyond Rictor's boots.

End of discussion.

"It'd be a shame," Rictor said slowly, as if he were thinking aloud, "for you to get transferred to another unit."

"Maybe you're not up to speed," Baird said dismissively, moving past Rictor to the workbench. "But that wouldn't be the first time that's happened either."

Rictor continued to stand with his back to the other man.

"Be a shame for Cole, I mean."

Baird paused shortly as he reached the bench before picking up the soldering iron again and returning to Ernie's innards.

"Especially when I get Hoffman to deny any transfer request he puts in to follow you."

Rictor turned and closed on Baird, who still appeared to be ignoring him.

"Cole's a good soldier," Rictor continued conversationally. "He'll understand I'm sure. After I tell him why I had to transfer you, of course. Hell, I imagine he'll have a few choice words for you himself."

Baird straightened, his turn to stand with his back facing the other man.

"And I thought," he said carefully placing the soldering iron back in it's wire-frame support, "I was meant to be the squad bastard."

Rictor stood silently behind him.

Baird reached into a drawer in the workbench, pulled out a computer internal hard drive and turned to Rictor, handing it to him.

"Don't worry yourself unduly, Corporal," Rictor said. "I'll not sully your reputation any. As long as you remember how this squad works."

"And how, exactly," Baird said with a thick undertone of contempt, "is that?"

"I give the orders and you follow them," Rictor growled.

"And you always follow orders, right?"

The veteran walked towards the doorway before turning back to Baird.

"Grey areas are for those higher up the chain of command. You of all people should know that."

Baird ignored the jibe, gestured at the hard disk in Rictor's hands: "you just going to hand that over to Prescott?"

"That's about the size of it."

The mechanic took off his cracked goggles and threw them on to the workbench.

"I didn't copy the files," he said simply. Then quickly before Rictor cut him off as a scornful look passed across his features; "that's the original hard disk from Avery's desktop. The concussive blast from the grenade blew apart the computer's casing so I just grabbed it."

Rictor looked at the drive, noticed the broken and twisted mounting brackets along its side before returning his gaze to Baird who was leaning against the bench arms folded.

"Which means it has all of the DRA's dirty little secrets on it, not just Myrmidon. You trust the 'good' Chairman with all of that?"

"Nope," Rictor snorted. "I trust Hoffman to keep him on the straight and narrow, though."

"Good luck with that," Baird grinned humourlessly. "You're not even slightly curious about what's on that drive? They just about dropped a fucking mansion on us and you don't even care?!"

"You keep telling everyone how smart you are, Baird. Smartest man in the continent. Maybe even the smartest man in the world, whatever's left of it outside Tyrus. But it takes a dumb bastard like me to tell you that this isn't a war any more?"

Baird threw back his head and laughed hollowly.

"You finally woke up and smelled the extinction, huh?!"

The veteran continued unabated.

"This is survival and survival is whatever it takes to get through! If whatever's on this drive gets us to that point, the point where we have the upper hand over those bastards, I've got no problem with that."

"You don't even know what's on that!" Baird advanced on Rictor, stabbing a finger at the drive. "It could be a dead colonel's back catalogue of porn! Or it could be the next Hammer of Dawn and you're just handing it over to Prescott."

Rictor stared at Baird, dumbstruck and silent for long seconds.

"Your psych evaluation makes note of 'a pragmatism that borders on the ruthless'," the Captain stepped in close to the other man. "You left the squad behind with a wounded man today because you wanted to rescue a piece of hardware! You are hands down the coldest bastard I have ever met and now it turns out that you're worried about someone else making the hard choices?! Did that grenade blow your ego out of proportion?!"

"No! Fuck that," Baird ranted. "Hard choices are all that's left! I worry about _him_ making those choices! It's too much power for one man."

Rictor flicked a clump of ash from his cigar onto the ground and took a long drag.

"Absolutely. But he's not showboating for election any time soon and even if he was, you know anyone else who'd want the job?"

"He dropped the Hammer on the planet without even blinking," Baird persevered.

"He did what needed to be done," Rictor folded his arms. "Don't matter if we agree with it, it wasn't our call to make."

The mechanic stood a few metres from Rictor and the older man could see the internal debate boiling away inside the younger man; the compulsive need to argue the point being outweighed by the frustration of knowing he wouldn't convert Rictor to his point of view.

"What if you're wrong about Prescott?" Baird said finally. "What if whatever leash Hoffman's got him on isn't short enough?"

"Then I'll look like a damned fool."

Rictor turned and exited the workshop, pulling the broken door to behind him

"Finally," Baird sighed. "Something we agree on."


End file.
